


Twisted Concept

by Babythe67Impala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU - Serial Killer, Anal Sex, At Least Not Any Monsters, Bisexual Dean, Bisexual Sam, Blood, Blowjobs, Coming Untouched, Conflicted Sam, Escaped Prison, F/M, Hand Jobs, Ice Play, Infatuation, Light Choking, M/M, Multi, No Hunting, Obsessed at first sight, Obsessed!Dean, Other, Possessive Dean, Public Hand Jobs, Riding, Serial Killer Fetish Sam, Serial Killer!Dean, Voyeurism, college!Sam, people die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babythe67Impala/pseuds/Babythe67Impala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester, a serial killer who escaped prison barely a couple months ago, finds his new obsession and is a little more than reluctant to leave this Sam Wesson without some sort of unforgettable impression. </p><p>
  <b>ON HOLD.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gorgeous Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a new thing for me, serial killers and excessive blood and stuff, so bare with me. I'll be working with both regularly, so I should be getting better and better with my writings as the story progresses. Hopefully you enjoy.(:

The metallic tang in the air was just about as good as it got for Dean Winchester. And it got _really_ good. Especially after he managed to escape Green River County Detention Center. It wasn't that hard of a slip, if he was being totally honest. It took him a short amount of time to collect the specific contraband he needed to make a break for it. The only actually bad thing about being in prison was he didn't have anyone to kill. They all just... weren't his type. His type being that all the men in the prison, were--well-- _men_ , therefore they just didn't do it for him. At least, not in the way he needed.

Dean's preferred style of killing was by fire. Usually he made it look electric, sometimes through other means. His therapist-- the one his father, John Winchester, had made him go see kicking and screaming up until he was eighteen and therefore he could (Dean's words) do _'Whatever the fuck he wanted'_ \-- said that it stemmed from the trauma he experienced as a child. At the age of four, he watched his house burn down and his mother, Mary, with it. 

Talk about _'Mommy Issues'_. 

But Dean knew that was all bullshit. He wasn't some Dexter wannabe. He was _him_. This was the way he was designed to be, not what his mother's death did to him. He was a psychopath. A dangerous, uncaring killer. There was no excuse for what he did, and sure, he could channel his desires in more... acceptable ways, but he didn't _want_ to. 

Seemed the only way he ever felt like he was alive was when he would be sitting in his Impala, about to drive away, watching as the flames engulfed the house his victim was being burned alive in. Hear the screams and see the flames lick the house's sides, imagine it having the same effect on the woman inside. Burning off her flesh layer at a time, charring the remains. 

Dean knew what he did was considered _'wrong'_ to most people... Okay, to anyone that wasn't like him, more like. But even despite this, he didn't think it was necessarily wrong, himself. More or less an extension of what makes him _him_. Whether that be other people's painting or tossing a ball around a gigantic field, his was lighting fires. Watching something great, something that is supposed to _protect_ its occupants, crumble to the ground and be reduced to nothing more than ash. Something that could no longer protect anyone. 

His second way, when he was feeling particularly frisky, he'd come into their home after they had been lulled into a false sense of security, then slice open their throats when they were least expecting it. The ironic thing was that John had given the knife he uses to him. Sometimes Dean only uses the second way in spite of his father. 

No longer worried about being caught (that ship had sailed nearly a year ago), he didn't bother trying to tone down his urges. Whenever they hit him, he went with it without hesitation. Planning would still go into, yes, but it was more of an impulsive thing. 

Much like his kill tonight. 

Dean was standing over the body of a dark haired woman. Her name was Sara, he thinks. Though he couldn't remember for certain. He preferred blonds, but this one would have to do. She did very nicely, actually. When he had slid the blade across her neck, as easily as the knife being an extension of his arm, he had punctured her internal jugular vein, and it spurted blood beautifully across her beige walls. The mist and blots painted an oak chest not too far from them, too, and it complimented the dark wood and added color to the otherwise basic room. It was dreadfully boring, but Sara's sacrifice made up for that in ways that made Dean _shudder_ , and in the best of ways, too. 

Wearing blue medical gloves (some cheap things he had picked up from a store a few towns over), he walked down one of the halls of the small house, pushing doors open casually until he found what he was looking for. Slipping into the bathroom, he rinsed off his blade with care, licking his lips. Looking up (as hard as it was to take his eyes away from the crimson running down off of his blade and draining down the porcelain sink, he still managed), he spotted a pair of bright green emerald eyes staring back at him. It reminded him of something along the lines of... _joy_ , if he could feel such a thing, being a psychopath and all. His heart still pounded and his hands, he realized, where shaking. Not in a bad way. But because he was so pumped with adrenaline that he was barely containing himself. What he felt after his kills was almost... **_orgasmic_**. 

He could remember on multiple occasions that he'd have a raging hardon after slitting someone's throat or watching a house go up in flames. From time to time, he'd have a himself a pretty brunette he'd pick up in a bar that had a taste for danger and let her take care of it, but most of the time he wasn't so fortunate and found relief with his palm. 

Tonight, the hardest he got was when he had Sara from behind, arms wrapped around her, blade just barely grazing her throat as he whispered things in her ear. Told her not to scream. Told her not to move. She had complied with the former, but had trouble complying to the latter. It wasn't as if he was going to let her survive anyway, even if she _had_ listened. Probably wouldn't have gone down any different. Except maybe the artwork on her walls, the ones that Dean had made, would have been less unforgiving and carefree. More controlled. Because her heart had been beating so fast, it took her mere minutes to bleed out and become a crumpled corpse at his feet. 

Dean allowed himself a few more moments, once he walked out of the bathroom, to admire his work. The blots had drops of blood running down the walls, creating one of his favorite effects. Blood was so much thicker than water, so it trailed down the wall slowly, as if it were trying to _tease_ him. A grin pulled at his lips and he looked down at the floor, where the woman was laying, her dark hair thrown about and now soaked with her own blood, watching as the thick crimson liquid pool around her head grew bigger and bigger. Dean was started to get hot again, and so he thought it best to leave. Standing in the doorway, he cast one final glance at his mural. 

Perfect.

Dean rested easy that night. Or rather, morning. He preferred to be up at night. According to him, that was the best time to be awake. Why anyone would want to pass up the beauty of the night was beyond him. But he also woke up in the mornings. He normally got anywhere from two to four hours of sleep each night. Anymore and he'd be drowsy and irritated. Any less and he'd just be irritated. It was easier to get caught up in rage whenever he got the latter of the two, and he just couldn't have that. He nearly killed a person in public not a month ago. Close to beat him to death and only a woman's shrill scream and a third party's punch to the face was enough to pull him out of his _need-to-kill_ violent outburst.

As he looked at his watch, he saw that it was 7:38 AM. Not as early as he usually gets up and gets out, but it's good enough. Especially considering today was going to be a slow day. Lazy. Languid. But Dean didn't mind days like those. They normally happened after a good kill. Or even sometimes an exciting hunt. And not with animals as his prey. 

"Sam!" Gasped someone shrilly, catching Dean's attention. 

Looking over, he saw two people walking along the sidewalk cemented towards the end of the motels parking lot, closer to the road. One blond with a slim build and perky tits and the other broad shouldered, chestnut tresses framing his beautiful face. The blond thwacked the man's arm playfully and the man clutched the spot that had been inflicted pain and he laughed. And what a fucking gorgeous laugh it was. Deep, but light as air. Rumbling up in his chest and snaking out of that pretty throat, rolling off of his tongue and enticing Dean's ears.

Not to mention the fucking _smile_ on that man. Bright and full of everything nice, things that Dean didn't have a word for, all matching up to his dimples and making his andalusite eyes shimmer.

Dean swore he stopped breathing for a moment. That his heart stuttered and his breathing became uneven. And his breathing never did that; not for no reason. If he had been running, which was usually from the cops, yes. If he had **_just_** gotten done with a kill, most likely. But from _seeing_ someone? No. It's unheard of.

"Ow! I was just _kidding_. Jeez!" The man the blond had called Sam laughed back at the blond. 

Something inside of Dean twisted in his gut and stirred in his chest. Clutching those areas, he reminded himself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Had to remind his diaphragm how to work properly and soon enough it was expanding and deflating at its normal steady pace. The pleasant feeling started to fade, but it still lingered. 

Before Dean really knew what hit him, chestnut and blond heads disappeared behind a corner, making him feel surprisingly empty.

_What the fuck?_

Having never felt that way before, Dean though it best to follow up on it. He had left the town he had slit the girl's throat in, so the motel was an okay place to be for a few days. Needless to say, so was the town. After the little incident that happened after he'd woken up this morning, he did a little research. Not enough to really know anything about the guy who'd make his heart stutter, but enough to get a feel of his routine.

Sam Wesson was his name. He went to Stanford and was currently taking steps to becoming a lawyer. Dean had snorted at that bit of information. Of course someone he'd taken an interest in was going to later become someone who helped decide his fate later; either helping to keep him out of prison or help him get back in. He was certain it would be the latter. All lawyers, at least in their early few years of learning, were always out to make the world a better place and fought battles that maybe they couldn't win, but would hurt their conscience if they hadn't. An Atticus Finch thing, Dean supposed. 

Now Dean was sitting in a bar stool in the bar Sam should be working. The place was called, "Purgatory", and was owned by a man named Gabriel Novak. It was a nice establishment, considering how many different bars Dean had been to seeing how he has been going from state to state for a good chunk of his adult life. The clientele was decent enough. As if some psychopathic serial killer had any right to judge the questionable clientele in a bar. The worst thing most of these people have done is not pay their taxes on time. Whereas Dean was losing count of how many people he's killed. How many houses he's burned. 

"Hey," Came a low, seductive feminine voice from his left, causing him to shift his gaze over reluctantly. 

"Hey," Dean answered gruffly. The woman in the bar stool, leaning on the bar to his left was attractive, to say the very least. She had dirty blond hair, darker than his own, with nice curves and a nice, white smile to boot. Her tanned, toned legs, as far as he could see, went all the way up. He was tempted to take on the unspoken offer in her brown doe eyes. 

"How about I buy you a drink?" She inquired, cocking one of her eyebrows. 

Dean was taken aback by this; finding it odd to be on the receiving end of this. He raised his own eyebrows at the offer and tilted his head slightly. It was a nice change from 'How about you buy me a drink', which was usually what he was confronted with. Normally those girls, if he didn't bed them, would end up with their homes burning up around them. 

"I'd like that," Dean purred, but the smile he was wearing (actually real, but only in amusement) faded after a moment, remembering why he was here. "But I'm going to have to decline. I'm--" 

"Waiting for someone?" She finished with a disappointed, but understanding, smile. 

Dean nodded. "Yeah... Sorry," He wasn't really, but it was the sentiment that counted. 

"It's fine," She laughed lightly, her features warming. "I guess I'll be leaving you to it, then. I'll be around if you change your mind, okay?" 

Dean nodded again and she left him. He had no qualms watching her hips sway as she walked away, but he was brought back to reality whenever a familiar yet not so familiar voice washed over him. The perfect combination of deep and teasing. 

"What can I get you?" Sam leaned on the counter opposite of him, empty glass in hand. He fell silent for a moment and for some reason it was as if it were physically impossible to speak. His lips quivered a bit as he tried to form words until Sam spoke up again. "Beer?" He suggested. 

If his mouth had given him the chance, he probably would have said beer, but right now he needs something stronger. "Actually lookin' for something strong tonight... How 'bout whiskey? Neat," 

"Comin' right up," Sam flashed him a dimply smile and Dean's composer was dissipating. 

It took no time at all for Sam to whip up a few drinks to sate the orders being barked at him from around the bar, soon getting back to Dean with a glass of whiskey. Neat. Just how he wanted it. Dean found it incredibly hard to take his eyes away from Sam and how expertly he maneuvered his large frame around the place; effortless. It seemed the man was all grace despite how his body looked like it might feel lanky and hard to control. Something about it made Dean find it even more attractive. Not to mention the shy way Sam seemed to compose himself. The sheepish smiles he'd offer to strangers in this bar who would pay him the time of day (though Dean couldn't understand why this man's dance card wasn't already full), and the blush that would paint his cheeks beautifully whenever he would make a minor mistake, like push the wrong person the wrong drink. It was all topped off with the experienced way his fingers would move about, flex, and flutter around the variety of drinks. 

Dean wasn't gay, not at all really, but his man could turn him. If he hadn't already. 

"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean grinned at the much taller male. What was he, like six foot three? Six foot four? Jeez. 

Blood rushed to the other man's cheeks, Dean could tell as they grew a pink color even in this dim lighting. "No problem," And then Sam was off, paying the other costumers the attention they required, poured more drinks, topped others off. Dean wondered that entire time if the reason why the other blushed was because of him calling him _'sweetheart'_. Perhaps Dean would have to call him that more often. A grin danced it's way across his lips once more. 

Dean nursed his drink for a good couple of hours, when the crowd's neediness started to die down and Sam, as well as his coworker (a cute redhead), time to breathe. More time to distribute among their costumers. Dean felt something red hot burn inside of him, almost startlingly sudden, whenever he witnessed a woman batting her eyes at Sam. He clutched his drink tighter. Was it jealousy? Wouldn't surprise him. All of the things that Sam had him feeling, it would not surprise him one bit. 

"What time do you get off?" Dean asked the redhead casually as she poured him another glass of whiskey. 

She smiled. Reading her nametag, finally, it read 'Charlie'. "An hour or so," Charlie answered with a quirk of her eyebrow. "But just to let you know, you're not my type," 

Once again taken aback this night, he gave her a funny look. "Wasn't hitting on you," He answered bluntly, honestly. An embarrassed blush burned at Charlie's cheeks, so he thought it nice to ease whatever sting he might have inflicted. "But just out of curiosity, what is it? I thought I was everyone's type," He smirked cockily. 

It seemed to relax her, because she gave him a look and rolled her eyes playfully. "You have the wrong equipment," 

" _Oh_ ," Dean nodded slowly. 

"It seems like I do, too," Charlie smirked, pushing Dean his glass of whiskey. 

Dean furrowed his brow, taking the glass in his hand as he gave her a puzzled look. "What?" 

"You've been making googly eyes at Sam over there all night," Charlie cocked her head in the direction Sam was in, still being flirted with. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Charlie went on. "He gets off soon, too," She winked and with that, left him. Dumbstruck. Had he been _that_ easy to read? 

 

The night droned on and the busyness of the place fluctuated. Thankfully it was growing slow and gave Sam a chance to, once again, take a breather. Dean supposed Sam'd noticed how his drink was again almost empty and decided to come over to fill it up once more. Dean was grateful for his high tolerance for alcohol. Seemed like he was born with it, seeing how he's been drinking since he was sixteen. 

"College student, huh?" Dean took the initiative with starting the conversation. 

Sam seemed surprised by that assumption, pausing to look at Dean for a moment before returning his hazel gaze down to the task at hand. "That obvious?" 

"No, not really," Dean answered, reaching out a hand and pushing the bottle of whiskey away. "Could I take a beer instead?" Despite his high tolerance, he had his limit and he had been pushing those tonight. He'd rather have his wits about him when he was taking apart this man (metaphorically speaking, seeing how he was a serial killer, he could see how this could be misconstrued as being literal). 

"Of course," Sam nodded, flashing a smile. He put the empty glass down and got out a different one, filling it up with beer before placing the mug in front of Dean. 

"What are you studying?" Dean questioned. He already knew the answer to this, but revealing that he already knew might scare Sam off. And Dean could have that. Nope. 

Sam's brow furrowed some, but the smile didn't fade. It seemed to widen. "Uhm, just law," He murmured with a small shrug. Dean could tell he was trying to tone down whatever passion he felt for what he planned to do. The younger man bit his lower lip and Dean knew that he had decided against elaborating. Something along the lines of anger welled up inside of Dean's chest. It wasn't towards Sam. Not at all. It was to the source of Sam's hesitance of sharing with him what he felt so strongly about; whether that be a single person or many of them. It told him that Sam didn't think it worthy of his time. 

"You want to be a detective?" Dean suggested, fingering the rim of his mug. "A lawyer, maybe?" 

Sam's head gave a bounce of a nod. "Yeah--er, a lawyer," 

"I was interested in law for a time," Dean revealed honestly. 

"Oh?" Sam leaned against the counter, cocking his head some. He seemed intrigued. 

"Yeah, thought about going into forensics. Blood spatter, specifically," He spoke, though not much of it was completely true. "My father was an officer. Never made detective, though," He sighed. 

"And why is that?" Sam inquired curiously. 

"I mean," Dean shrugged. "He might have by now. But up until I left he was still just an officer," 

Sam tilted his head and stared at the counter contemplatively before looking back to Dean, like he had been considering something. "Why'd you leave?" 

"What?" 

"You said 'up until I left'," Sam elaborated. "Why'd you leave?" 

_Shit_. Dean hadn't meant to let that much slide. For some reason his mind and his mouth weren't communicating properly with Sam around. That didn't sit right with Dean. "We didn't get along," He finally said with a sigh and another shrug of his shoulders. He brought the clear mug of beer to his lips and tilted it, letting it wash over his tongue and burn down his throat. The burn wasn't quite as bad as the whiskey, but everything was more intense with Sam around. "I think you're going to make a good lawyer," He chuckled after swallowing, earning a modest smile from the other. "Besides, I was eighteen. It was about time I moved on," 

"You're not from around here, are you?" Sam's eyes held a glimmer of humor. 

"Not from 'round anywhere, I reckon," Dean half agreed vaguely. 

"Mm," Sam hummed, nodding. "Sorry if that was intrusive," He said suddenly, blushing. 

Dean waved him off with his free hand that was propped up on the counter by his elbow. "No need to apologize," He stated casually. "You can ask me anything," 

"Really?" 

"Yep," 

Okay, maybe giving this _lawyer to be_ permission to ask him _anything_ was a bad idea. But how could he say no to someone like... **_that_**? No one in there right mind would deny this gorgeous slice of life anything, much less a psychopath who is apparently obsessed with said person. 

"Do you ever talk with him anymore?" Sam inquired after a moment. Someone called him over, but Charlie zoomed over to take care of that person almost immediately, allowing for Sam's attention to be brought back to Dean. 

"No," Dean shook his head. 

"Not at all?" 

"Nope," Dean popped the 'p'. 

"Wow," The corner of Sam's mouth twitched up a bit, and then he leaned further on the counter, closer to Dean. Dean did the same, even though if you asked him, he'd deny it. The other man seemed almost in awe. 

"What?" He questioned with a confused smirk and another sip of his beer. 

"It's just..." Sam pursued his lips before straightening himself out and grabbing a rag from behind the bar, beginning to wipe down the area in front of him all while avoiding Dean's steady gaze. 

"It's just what?" Dean pressed on gently, setting the mug down and crossing his arms in front of him on the counter, all of his attention both mentally and physically focused on Sam. 

Now it was Sam's turn to shrug. "I don't know... I just uhm- guess I wish that, uh, I could do that," Dean furrowed his brow, wondering what he meant by that. The facial expression triggered an explanation from Sam. "My father and I aren't on the best of terms, either," He revealed solemnly. Then, to Dean's surprise, he snorted and smiled. "What am I doing talking about me? _I'm_ the bartender, after all," 

Dean chuckled softly, the irritation at Sam's father dissipating. "But I wanna hear about _you_ , not talk about me," 

Another blush colored Sam's cheeks and the way he tilted his head down, long lashes casting over his andalusite eyes, told Dean another something. He didn't really get to talk about himself a lot. "So tell me about this father of yours," Dean murmured over the rim of his mug as he lifted it to his lips. "Why don't you two get along?" 

"Conflict of interest, I guess," Sam shrugged. 

Dean tilted his head some, initiating another elaboration. 

"He's owns a garage," Sam sighed, looking off for a moment, his eyes eventually finding their way back to Dean. "The garage was his father's and his father's before him, blah blah blah," Sam laughed a bit, his face turning somber again after a minute, a bittersweet smile on his gorgeous lips. "Needless to say, he wants me to follow in line," 

"But you have bigger dreams," Dean concluded. 

Sam nodded slowly, as if he were just realizing this himself. "Right," 

"What did your mother have to say about it?" He inquired curiously. 

"Uhm..." Sam pursed his lips again, this time like he was trying to find a gentle way to put something. "Not much," 

"What does that mean?" 

"She just didn't really seem to care. Switzerland, whatnot," Sam sighed. 

"So she didn't back you up you said you wanted to go to Stanford," Dean concluded again, taking another sip, this time his conclusion sounded more like a statement than a question. 

Again, Sam nodded and laughed slightly, as bittersweet as his smile. "Right again," This time, his brow furrowed and he looked at Dean with confusion. "How do you know I go to Stanford?" 

Son of a _bitch_. 

Dean nearly spat out his beer. Instead he choked it down, raising his fist and setting down his drink. His fist went to his mouth as he coughed. When he finally got a hold of himself, giving a quite "Sorry" to Sam, he spoke. "I just-- I just, uhm, assumed," Dean said, but Sam was still giving him that look, so he felt compelled to explain. "Seemed like you'd rather shoot for something big than some community college. Especially if you wanted to be a lawyer," The look on Sam's face soften. "I actually wanted to go, for a time. Wanting to get into forensics and all that," 

"Oh, yeah, right. Sorry," Sam gave him an apologetic smile. 

That was a close one. Despite Dean saving his own ass, he needed to be more cautious from now on. 

"Forget about it," Dean smiled back reassuringly. 

There was a bit of silence and Sam shifted a bit. Instead of shifting away like prey _should_ do when around a predator, he shifted closer. "If you didn't go to Stanford, where'd you go?" 

Dean settled back in the bar stool and thought on that for a moment, wondering if he should be honest or not. "Nowhere," 

"You didn't go to college?" 

"Nope," 

"Why not?" 

"College life just wasn't for me, kid," Dean sighed. He noted the grimace from Sam whenever he was called 'kid'. 

"How so?" Now both of Sam's elbows were on the counter and was fully facing Dean. 

Dean thought on that for a minute, too. He figured _'I was interested in killing people and doing whatever the fuck I wanted more than being in forensics'_ wouldn't go over to well. Not the best way to win a guy over. "School and me didn't really agree with each other, that's all," He finally answered. 

"Well, I think--" Sam began, but Dean didn't get to figure out what Sam was thinking because a short, amber eyed man came out of his office and called Sam over. When he didn't immediately come over, the amber eyed fellow walked over. 

"Sam the Ma'am!" The man clapped Sam on the back, Sam mouthing the word 'Boss' to Dean, who nodded. So this ball of energy was Gabriel Novak, the owner. 

"Yeah?" Sam straightened out and faced Gabriel. 

"How about when you two are done, you come back to my office?" Gabriel suggested, pulling a sucker out of seemingly nowhere and putting it in his mouth, sucking on it and swirling it into the hollow of his cheek. "We can talk about next week's hours in there, hmm?" 

"Yeah, okay," Sam nodded, chestnut tresses bouncing, a smile forcing its way onto his lips. It wasn't the natural ones that Dean'd had the pleasure of witnessing before. With that, Gabriel flashed a sucker in mouth grin to Sam and then a nod to Dean before making his way back to his office. Dean looked at Sam questioningly. 

"That was Gabe, my boss," Sam explained, swallowing. 

Dean furrowed his brow. "Got that much," He murmured. 

"Yeah... He's a character," Sam's jaw flexed a bit and he looked down at the counter, running over it with the rag once more. 

"Mhm," Dean agreed. The short man seemed like he was quite the character, if Dean had known him long enough to judge that much. 

There was a sound that left Sam's lips, like he was clearing his throat. "So..." He began and Dean had a feeling he knew where this was headed. "I best be getting back to him," He looked at the clock. "My shift's almost over," He explained. "Come back soon?" 

"You betcha," Dean dipped his head once, giving Sam a smile. 

"I work tomorrow," Sam added before scratching the back of his neck and then proceeding to glide over to the office door, not looking back at Dean. 

Had that been an _invitation_? 

 

Later that night, Dean was still at the bar. It wasn't long after Sam had disappeared into Gabriel's office that the bar would start to close down for the rest of the night. The thing was, once Sam had gone through that door, he noticed that Sam didn't come back out. Trust him, he kept one eye on the door at all times. He thought that maybe he'd see Sam again with his things as he left, but no such luck. Instead, he was still in that office with his boss. For some reason, that didn't sit with him right. He tried to think rationally, something he's been able to do in even the most pressured of situations, that maybe there was a back exit that Sam took instead, but his irrational, deluded feelings for Sam, this _infatuation_ , had him thinking irrationally. Something that Dean named as worry washed over him in waves. The first one hit when there was almost nobody left in the bar. The second wave hit him after the woman, someone who wasn't that redhead, Charlie, asked him politely to leave. The third hit when Dean was forced to leave (well, he could have stayed if he wanted, but not without attracting unwanted attention). 

Now he was outside of the bar, watching as all the lights turned out. He ducked whenever the woman came out after locking up and went to her car. He waited until she had left before going over to the door and pulling out a paper clip. He used those to shift inside of the lock, hearing the satisfying _click_ of it unlocking. He wasted no time letting himself inside. 

Looking around, the lighting was dim, if not there entirely. He managed to maneuver himself over to the bar, following it until he neared the office. Some disturbing noises filled his ears and made him wary to venture forward, but at the same time urged him on, too. 

Light flooded in from a thin crack under Gabriel's office door. It guided Dean's feet as he came closer and closer. 

" _Fuck_ ," He heard. It wasn't Sam's voice, but there was a soft groan that followed after it. He lunged for the door and just _barely_ caught himself from bursting in through the door. Instead, he gripped the handle and turned ever so slightly until it was free to open. He pushed it open just a fraction. Barely enough for, if they even knew that he was doing this, for them to see that he was there. 

What he saw made all of the breath in his body leave him in one silent gasp. 

Sam was there in there, at least. 

He was sprawled out across the desk, his head thrown back over the edge with his back arched. His long, toned legs were wrapped around Gabriel's waist that was snapping back and thrusting forward over and over again, at a merciless pace. His hips rammed into Sam's time and time again, and Dean was seeing so much skin it was overwhelming. Especially considering some of it, most of it, belonged to Sam. Sun kissed skin stretched taut over rippling muscles. His long fingers digging into the wood of the desk as breathless moans flew from his bruised lips, red and swollen from what Dean thought may have been a kiss. It wouldn't have surprised him. Gabriel's hands were at Sam's hips, holding them there as he pushed himself into over and over. Sweat slicked both of their skins, glistening in the light from the lamp on his desk. Everything else that used to be on his desk was now pushed off onto the floor, Dean saw. The angle in which he was watching gave him a good view of Sam's front and part of his backside before Gabe's hips would snap forward and make it disappear again, and Dean could see all of Gabriel's backside; from the back of his blonde head to the back of his heels as far as the eye could see. But that wasn't what Dean was focusing on. All he could see was Sam, Sam, and Sam. 

The way Sam's heels dug into his boss's ass and the back of his thigh, the way his back would arch and he'd lull his head up and back down with every thrust. His hips moved with Gabe's, gyrating and wiggling as his fingernails scraped across the desk. Slapping of skin on skin, guttural moans, and breathless gasps filled the air and the smell of sex penetrated Dean's nostrils. 

"That's it, baby," Gabriel groaned, thrusting his hips faster. Sam's body reacted in kind. "Taking it all like such a good boy," 

Sam _mewled_ , such a noise that Dean wouldn't have ever guessed that Sam would make. And then there was a twitch in his pants. Something that only happened, lately, when he killed. When he saw flames or the blood of his victims splatter all over their own walls. Whenever he'd see the light disappear from their eyes. Whenever he'd revisit the scene and see their homes turned to ash. 

It was turning him on ,and despite the way his blood boiled because of it not being _him_ that made Sam mewl like that, he was loving every minute of this. Watching Sam writhe underneath someone other than what he wished was himself. It was an odd thing to watch, too. Sam, from first glance, seemed like if he were gay, he'd be a top. That _he'd_ be the one with Gabe sprawled out over that desk and taking him for all he's worth, but no. Not in this case. Sam couldn't be anymore submissive looking even if he _tried_. Right here, right now, there wasn't anyone who looked like they should have a cock inside of them more than Sam, and it was driving Dean mad. 

"Harder! Please, G-Gabe, harder!" Sam shouted, throwing his head back up to look at Gabe. Then it happened. Sam's half-lidded eyes shifted over just enough to make it seem like he was looking _right_ at Dean. Dean froze in place, his eyes widening some as he seemed to sober up a bit at this realization. Sam's already red face reddened some more, as he looked at the crack in the door, directly at Dean. He was about to spin around and bolt out of pure instinct, but then Gabe thrust his hips into Sam particularly hard and Sam shut his eyes and threw his head back, shaggy chestnut hair that wasn't matted to his forehead with sweat flying back with it. "Fuck!" 

"Mm, baby-- _fuck_ , Sam, I'm so fucking close!" Gabriel barely managed to get out, driving his hips even harder into Sam, Sam's body jolting back and forth on the desk with each thrust. 

With a thrust that screamed with the finality that was Gabe's climax, Gabriel buried _deep_ inside of Sam, the older of the two came with a shout, and Sam cried out, his back arching. Gabe rode out his orgasm, leaving Sam a hot and bothered mess beneath him up until the waves of his orgasm faded and he came down from his high enough to finally collapse over Sam, their torsos pressed against each other's. 

"That was really fuckin' good, Samoose," Gabriel murmured after a moment and pulled away from Sam, then pulled out of him and slid off the condom, tying it off and throwing it in the trashcan with surprisingly accurate aim. When Gabe moved out from between Sam's legs, Dean saw that Sam was still hard. 

And fuck, what a gorgeous cock that was. Big and pink, red towards the shaft and then nearly purple towards the head due to a denial of his own orgasm. It was pointed up towards his stomach. Fuck. Dean's _never_ wanted to have a cock in his his mouth, but now that was all he could think about. Taking that huge, beautiful-- 

"That raise is definitely coming your way, baby," Gabriel disrupted his thoughts. Sam smiled as sat up on the desk, his weeping erection pulling away from his toned stomach, stringing along a bead of his precome with it. He seemed in a hurry to throw on his clothes, and therefore was probably going to come out any minute. 

Dean wasted no time making it back to the front door and slipping out. He was about to start making way for the Impala, but he stopped himself instead leaned back against the outside of the front bar wall, the cool jagged edges of the bricks pressing into his back; ground him as his head seemed to spin. 

Jealousy was strong, yes. He wanted to slit Gabriel Novak's throat open and watch it paint his fucking office red. Make sure to slice open a part of his neck that would make him bleed out more slowly. Have the passive spurts blotted all over his desk, right where Sam had been lying there, all spread out. He was angry, too. And also with that amber eyed short stack. Fucking Sam's ass raw and not bothering to wrap a hand around his dick and make it good for him, too. Dean wondered if Sam had been faking those moans and mewls or if they were real. He couldn't possibly see why they would be real. It doesn't feel _that_ good to have something shoved up your ass, right? Prostate feels good, sure (don't ask Dean why he knows that, more or less a girl he knew back when he was in high school gave him one hell of a... what do they call it? Rimming?). But it shouldn't feel nearly as good as getting your dick blown or jerked. Obviously, since Sam hadn't come all over himself, Dean was right. 

Dean hadn't killed a lot of men in his years of killing, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't. Because, fuck yeah, right now he wanted to slice and dice Gabriel. Maybe follow him home, tie him down to his mattress, and light his house on fire. He'd love to see it crumble around the bastard. Hear screams of agony instead of pleasure. Maybe he'd make it an explosion of a fire to symbolize a big 'bang'. Dean mused the idea for a moment, but pushed all of those thoughts aside when he heard the door of the bar open and close, the jiggling of keys. He couldn't kill Gabriel now. That would make the police swarm this town and make it nearly impossible, high population aside, for Dean to ever come see Sam again. He'd have to force his urges down. Sate them through other means. 

There was the familiar outline of Sam's figure, moonlight complimenting the broadness of his shoulders and the feminine curve of his face. His hair was still matted to his forehead, up until he ran his long fingers through it. Dean wondered what it'd feel like if he was the one doing it. 

"Oh shit!" Sam suddenly jumped, staggering back a few steps. His eyes were on Dean. 

"Sorry," Dean apologized, hands up in surrender as he pushed off the wall. He let his hands fall back to his sides. "Didn't mean to scare you, "

"What are you--what're you doing here, still?" Sam inquired almost breathlessly, raking another hand through his hair. A stressed gesture. Maybe Sam _hadn't_ seen him looking in the crack of the door earlier, watching him get pounded into by his boss. Maybe it had just been in Dean's head. 

Dean realized then, looking at Sam, just how hard he actually was. His cock pressed hard into the denim of his jeans, painfully into his zipper. It throbbed with the need of release that Dean just wasn't getting. Emerald eyes trailing down Sam's figure, down to his crotch, Dean saw that Sam was still achingly stiff, pressing a hard outline of the shape of his dick into his jeans that suddenly looked a bit too tight for him to be wearing. 

"Too drunk to drive," Dean lied smoothly. He was drunk, yes, but too drunk to drive? Never. 

"Oh," Sam said, looking out into the parking lot, shifting from foot to foot. Dean was surprised he managed to make it out here, sporting a boner like that. 

"You got a ride?" Dean questioned. 

"Yeah," Sam's eyes returned to Dean. "My girlfriend's coming to pick me up," 

Wait a fucking minute (literally). A **_girlfriend_**? Dean was almost so taken back by this that he actually took a step backwards. So not only was he getting fucked by his male boss, but he had a girlfriend? The fuck kind of show was he running here? 

"You have a girlfriend?" Dean's voice came out calm, cool, and collected. Unlike what he was feeling inside. His blood was boiling, about to fucking spill over, and he had to clench his fists to keep from losing it. 

"Yeah," Sam nodded. Dean saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. 

"Interesting," Dean hummed, shoving his fists into his jacket pockets. 

"What's interesting?" 

Dean smirked. "That you have a girlfriend. After what I saw in there-" Dean gestured to the bar with a nod of his head, referring to the office. "-just wasn't expecting you to be into both," 

Sam looked away, averting his gaze to something that Dean couldn't make out in the dark. "I'm not," He said meekly. 

"Into both? You're just into...?" 

"Girls," 

"Didn't seem like it in there," Dean smirked, humor in his tone though what he was feeling was anything but. 

Sam fell silent and glanced at Dean, and then away. "You're not gonna--" 

"Tell anyone?" 

"Yeah," 

"No. I ain't gonna tell anyone. 'Sides, who would I tell?" Dean questioned. _But I'd happily burn your boss alive. How's that sound?_

Sam nodded slowly. 

"Hope you get that raise," Dean commented lightly. A bit too casually for the situation. He came over with that, over to Sam who shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably, earning a small yelp of surprise from him whenever Dean pushed him against the wall as he braced his forearm against Sam's hard chest. 

"What are you--?" Sam didn't get to finish before Dean was cupping a hand over the other's crotch. 

"Son of a bitch didn't even let you come, did he?" Dean asked in a coo, pressing his body against Sam's whose wiggled in return, but much to Dean's surprise, didn't fight it. He gave Sam's crotch a squeeze in reward. "Such a good little whore and he didn't even bother to jerk you off, huh? Wasn't very nice of him," His voice was barely a throaty whisper. All Sam could manage was a small whimper and a buck of his hips whenever Dean gave his bulge some much needed attention, involuntarily jolting his hips up into the warmth of Dean's hand and experienced older fingers. 

"I can't-- my girlfriend's gonna be here-- any minute--" Sam got out in a strangled tone, one that Dean took a bit too much pride in causing. Sam's hands, instead of pushing Dean away or shoving him, went back to try and clutch at the wall. 

Dean chuckled lowly. "Then we better make this fast, huh Sam?" 

With that, both of Dean's dexterous hands went to Sam's jeans, unbuckling his belt and pulling it off, then working on unbuttoning and unzipping the denim. Fuck, he can't remember wanting anything more in his life. And Sam wasn't doing anything to stop him. Wasn't saying no, though his mouth looked like it was trying to form the word, it never left his lips. He didn't try to push Dean away and call him a freak. Didn't see through this facade and see the killer underneath. Or maybe that was what was drawing Sam to him; the danger that Dean seemed to radiate. 

" _Fuck_ ," Sam whispered, shutting his eyes. 

After getting Sam's pants unbuttoned and unzipped, Dean wasted no time tugging them from Sam's hips, pulling his boxers along with it, watching as Sam's dick bobbed once at it's new found freedom. "Wouldn't want to explain to your girlfriend why you're sporting _this_ -" Dean wrapped a hand around Sam's hot cock to emphasize it, eliciting a shiver from the other man. "-would you?" 

"N-no," Sam shook his head, opening his eyes. 

Dean dropped to his knees. Man, he never thought he'd do this. Not for Sam. Not for _anyone_. But here he was, willingly getting on his knees for this man who he's one known existed for a little over eighteen or so hours like a slut with something to prove, and he didn't want to be anywhere else. Just right here, right now. 

Looking at Sam's cock, hips just the right height for Dean's mouth, Dean felt almost intimidated by it. He's killed countless people, made a name for himself in prison, escaped said prison, has been on the run for the past couple months, and never once had he been intimidated by anyone or any _thing_. Especially not the cock between someone's legs. Not even in prison. And that Green River Detention Center had some questionable characters in it. The kind you couldn't drop the soap around, if you catch his drift. 

Dean looked up to Sam, realizing the younger male was watching him with almost scared eyes. He couldn't tell why Sam was scared, though. Fear of getting caught? Not used to having a guy do this? He _did_ say that he was just into girls. _As if Dean was going to believe that_. Maybe Sam had just been on his back in sake of his raise. A fuck or be poor kind of situation. Dean knew that Stanford was no cheap college to attend. That had to be the reason, if not liking cock up his ass. Obviously not enough to come untouched. 

Fuck, if Dean got Sam to come untouched someday... Now _that_ would be hot. 

Grabbing Sam's cock around the base of the shaft, Dean leaned forward some and gave the head a tentative lick. Precome still adorned the tip of Sam's dick, so Dean was confronted by a bitter, salty taste, and at the same time, tasted exactly like how he'd expect Sam to taste. Fucking delicious. 

Being an all or nothing kind of guy, Dean dragged his tongue from the space in between his balls and and cock, up the underside, evoking a groan as Sam's weeping erection twitched with approval at the attention. Dean gripped Sam's thigh with his other hand. He pulled back just a bit to look up at Sam through his lashes, and was surprised to see that Sam was looking down at him still. He hadn't looked up or away and pretended that that was some chick that was licking his cock, maybe his girlfriend or something, but no. He was looking directly at Dean with dark, half lidded eyes. 

Dean took Sam into his mouth, eyes not leaving his, as he started to suck gently. To Dean's pleasant surprise, dick didn't taste as bad as he thought. Didn't taste bad at all, actually. Maybe that was just because this cock was _Sam's_ , but Dean didn't know for certain, having only taste Sam's before. It tasted like skin and salt, from both precome and the sweat that still clung to Sam's beautiful skin, and a bit of soap, which just led Dean to believe that Sam liked to stay clean. 

"Oh, _god_ ," Sam shivered, leaning back against the wall. 

Dean took that as encouragement and sucked a little harder before tentatively hollowing his cheeks and taking more of Sam into his mouth. The heavy, hot length throbbed against the roof of Dean's mouth and he moaned around the flesh between his lips. He really wouldn't want it any other way. Just an hour or so ago he was just imagining this and now, here he was. On his knees. Sucking Sam off. 

And loving every fucking second of it. 

Almost as much as Sam, who moaned. It was deep and choked off as Dean's lips sunk lower and lower on his cock. Sam couldn't help himself and bucked his hips. Dean didn't make any noise of protest, and only took this as an odd sort of praise for what he was doing and continued to take more and more of Sam into his mouth before he abruptly gagged, the top of Sam's cock jabbing the back of his throat. 

"Shit, are you--are y-you okay?" Sam barely managed, but sounded concerned all the same. 

Dean answered by recomposing himself and humming around Sam's length. Sam moaned and relaxed back against the wall once more. He pulled back and then took Sam into his mouth again, sinking lower and lower every time. He was trying to get himself used to it. Maybe work away that gag reflex. 

Back and forth, and bobbing his head, licking and sucking, humming and taking Sam so deep that the thin curls at the base, what little bit of pubic hair he had, tickled his nose. He could barely fit most of Sam into his mouth without gagging, so he had to pace himself or risk having Sam pull him off of his dick and take care of himself through other means. 

Dean's own cock was throbbing and begging to be touched. Before Dean could even manage to press his palm into his dick, the warm feeling coiling in his groin became too intense and he had to latch onto Sam with both hands on his bare thighs as he came in his pants like some kind of hormonal teenager who just saw his first pair of tits. Dean wasn't able to help the way he groaned around Sam's dick. Sam didn't seem to mind.

"I'm gonna--! O' _fuck_!" Sam cried out and as soon as he arched his back, Dean knew what he was in for. It didn't stop him from sinking his lips back down Sam's dick. Sam's hips jolted forward and a hot, thick liquid shot into Dean's willing mouth. The salty bitterness formed in his mouth once more, making him scrunch up his face and ignore his protesting taste buds, his lips not leaving Sam's cock until he'd unloaded himself completely and Dean had swallowed every last drop before inevitably pulling off of Sam's cock with an obscene _pop_. 

Both Sam and Dean were gasping for air by this time, Dean glancing up at Sam who gave him an appreciative smile, and then resting his forehead against Sam's bare thigh as he listened to Sam try and catch his breath. 

"Thanks," Sam murmured softly. 

To that, Dean answered with silence and a brush of his swollen lips against Sam's bare inner thigh. What else was he suppose to do? Supposed to _say_? _"Oh yeah, no problem. I'd suck your cock anytime,"_? Yeah, no. 

Then there was a flash of lights and Sam jumped slightly. Dean pulled away and Sam pulled his boxers and pants up hastily. Looking around, Sam realized a car had pulled up, but thankfully around the bush so whoever was on the other side couldn't see him. There was a honk, and Sam hurriedly slipped his belt through a couple of the belt loops it had been shaken loose from on his pants journey down his legs. Then he buttoned, zipped, and buckled. 

"I gotta--" His eyes went to the source of the light over the bushed. "See you around?" 

"See me around," Dean agreed with a smile as he stayed put. If he stood, his girlfriend would see him. That might be a little hard for Sam to explain. Despite wanting Sam totally and completely, he didn't want to make his life a living hell by using what they just did to his advantage. Okay, maybe he would, but not the making his life a living hell part _with_ something like this. He didn't want Sam to regret letting him suck him off. He didn't want this man to come to resent him. 

Sam was about to skedaddle when he paused. "I, uh--... I never got your name," 

"Dean," Dean answered. 

With that, Sam nodded with a small, sheepish and apologetic smile, and jogged off and over to the car. He heard a murmur of Sam and his girlfriend's back and forth up until he heard the crackling of gravel once more and soon the light disappeared, too. Then the gravel crunching became distant and was no more altogether, allowing for Dean to get up. 

He made one thing clear in his mind as the aftertaste of Sam filled him; 

He was going to make Sam _his_.


	2. Addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the sloppy hetero smut in the beginning - I've gotten out of habit of writing it, so that's been the first time in, like, _ever_ that I've written it.

"You're being rather frisky tonight," Jessica grinned from beside Sam on their bed, Sam's hand running up the smooth skin of her side. 

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," Sam purred, pressing his fingers into his girlfriend's hips. "At the bar. Really wanted to be here with you," 

Jessica silenced him with a kiss. One with passion and heat and empathy and everything in between. Sam kissed her back, _harder_ , trying to forget that it felt like something was missing. Something between them wasn't the same as it had been since he started working at Purgatory. Though it was painfully apparent to Sam, he hoped it wasn't as obvious to Jessica. She didn't deserve that. 

"Mmm," Jess moaned into the kiss, pulling away and looking at him. "Couldn't stop thinking about you, either, baby," She whispered breathlessly. 

"I wanna feel you, Jess," Sam huffed against her lips before pressing them back into them. "Please," 

Sam didn't know why he was being so touchy feely. Why he was so desperate to forget this night and drown out his thoughts with sex. Why he was willing to _use_ Jessica. It wasn't the first time that his boss had fucked him, and Sam knew that it was unlikely to be the last. It wasn't as if that was rape or anything of the sort, Sam willingly, albeit reluctantly, but willingly spread his legs or bent over for Gabriel. Being his boss, the man decided whether or not he'd get a paycheck and how much he'd get. Whether he was promoted or if he was forced to clean out the toilets and take out the trash. Or if he was fired all together. Sure, you didn't have to sleep with someone to keep them from pulling the carpet out from under you, but it was always good to work all over your angles if you have them, and Sam did; his pert ass. Gabe seemed to love it, anyway. Enough to drive into it at least three nights a week. Besides, Sam really needed that raise. If he was going to make next semester's payments on time, that is. 

Getting a blowjob from a smoking hot (though Sam would deny it if someone asked him if he was gay) complete stranger was a new one, though.

His name was Dean. Not a _complete_ stranger, okay?

Sam rolled them over to where Jessica was on her back, earning him a gasp of approval. "Wanna feel you, too," Then there was a pause and Jess pushed him away for a moment, looking him in the eye. "It's late, baby. Are you sure you don't want to find time for this tomorrow? I know you have an early lecture," 

"I want you _now_ ," Sam insisted and he attacked her neck with a flurry of kisses and bites, sucking on places here or there.

This time Jessica didn't pull away. Sam couldn't remember the last time they fucked. It'd been a couple weeks, at _least_. They'd make out but been too exhausted to do much else. Jessica had a day job at the cafe not too far from here and most of her lectures were where in the afternoon, so whenever they had a chance to sleep, they fucking took it. 

But right now Sam wanted to forget. And he knew if he passed up on this tonight, he wouldn't be able to get any sleep. His mind would be too busy. 

His hand slipped down her body, his index finger skimming over the dip of her navel before traveling lower. His cock twitched with anticipation, getting hard again for the second time today. He reached down in between his girlfriend's supple thighs and pressed his hand against the growing warmth there. 

She gasped softly and Sam would have grinned if he didn't have other things on his mind. Things that shouldn't be there where running through it, when he should be focusing on who was about to be wrapped around him. Sam knew that using her like this wasn't right. Not at all. She deserved so much better than him, but he just needed to _forget_. Even if it's only for a little while. 

Slipping his fingers under the thin waistband of her panties, he wasted no time pushing his hand in, grunting at the inviting warm. 

"What? No foreplay?" Jessica laughed, but arched her hips up into Sam's hand. 

"Fuck foreplay," Sam growled playfully, smashing his lips into Jess'. 

She broke away and stared up at him, her eyes dark with desire. "Fuck _me_ ," 

Next thing Sam knew, he was tearing what little clothes she had on off and tossing them to the side, his lips kissing along her neck and sucking ruthlessly and biting along the line of her clavicle. Then he was sliding down her body and his head was buried in between her thighs. Fingers spreading her lips that were already, to Sam's pleasant surprise, kind of wet. He looked up her body, in between her breasts, and to her before letting his tongue swipe gently over her outer folds. She moaned softly, her dark blue green eyes staring right back at him. He licked deeper inside of her, tasting her sweet juices, eliciting a moan of his own. Sam let his eyes roll back and close, let his mind ease and find comfort in Jess' sex. He let his teeth tenderly graze one of her lips, swollen from the stimulation, and then went back to licking and lapping at her wetness. 

Sam hooked his arms under Jess' thighs and his hands gripped her hips, holding them down to keep them from bucking up into his mouth. Jess was always warm and all smiles, and now wasn't any different. Now she was just heat underneath his fingers and tongue. Wet heat, arching and whimpering and whining in ways that went straight to Sam's dick. She keened his name as he slipped his tongue in and out of her; tongue fucking her. Her sweet taste and naturally delicate musk filled his senses and he felt himself begin to let go. 

This, being here with Jess, whether between her legs or not, was where he felt the closest to safe. She enveloped him with this sense of security that wrapped around him and sunk its claws in deep. Albeit this was true, there was something broken. And no, it wasn't her. It was him. Sam was the broken one. He'd try to fix himself, if not for himself, then for Jess, but that would mean that he would need to _know_ what's broken. 

His fingers dug into her soft hips and he pressed his face in further, feeling her slick at the corners of his mouth and beginning to soak his maw. He pressed in harder with his hands, forcing her willing hips down onto his tongue. His tongue was thrusting so deep inside of her, working her open, that her trimmed pubic hair tickled his nose. He used to find it kind of funny how she waxed it, calling it the 'Landing Strip', but now it was just Jess. Pure sex and heat and just plain _sexy_. He pulled away just enough to tongue her inner folds. Then sucking on one towards the top of her opening, revealing her clit, swollen with need. He gave it what it needed, sucking gently on it and pressing the flat of his tongue on it just hard enough to get a response. Jess cried out and clutched the sheets in her slender fingers, digging her heels into the mattress. 

"Oh, _god_ , fuck-- Sam!" Jess keened and rolled her hips despite Sam's grip on them. 

Sam didn't try to restrain her anymore and his hand went to her thighs, nails digging in there. His tongue swiped over her clitoris, making her arch her back and expel a new wave of juices over his tongue. Fuck, he could never get enough of this. He worked his tongue more relentlessly over her flesh, in between her folds and then dipping further between her lips and tonguing her entrance, and finally traveling back up to her clit, where he gave very attentive attention to. 

" _Sam_! Baby, I'm so close!" Jess gasped loudly, the sharp inhale increasing the jut of her hips and allowing him to dig in and penetrate her more deeply. And just like that, she was screaming and bucking her hips up into Sam's mouth, nearly fucking herself on his tongue, coming hard as her legs shook and her body convulsed, arching and twisting. A more concentrated flow of her juices shot into his mouth and down his maw, leaking down his chin and running down his neck or dripping to the bedsheets. She kept rolling her hips, riding out her orgasm like the fucking pro she was, Sam coming along for the ride, lapping up the sweet liquids. 

Then her tensed legs relaxed around him and she unclenched. "Holy fuck..." She sighed. Jess was then gripping his shoulders, sitting up some, and pulling him to her. Their gazes met, heated like fire, and then their lips were slotted together sloppily, Jess' tongue swiping across Sam's wet lips, tasting herself and humming into the kiss as she sucked Sam's lower lip. Responding to Jess, Sam slipped his tongue into her willing mouth while their tongues danced between them, both of them sucking on each other hungrily. 

Jess pulled away and looked at Sam, a wickedly sexy grin pulled at her lips. "No wonder you like it down there so much," Jess purred with a cocky quirk of her eyebrows. Sam raised his own. "I taste amazing," 

"Fuck yeah, you do," Sam chuckled and growled playfully as he leaned into her, pinning her back against the mattress and nipping at her neck. 

Jess' fingers found the waistband of Sam's pajama pants and started to tug them down. And down everything came. Down the cloud in his mind that made it possible for him to be in between her legs, to be with _her_. His body froze in place and it seemed nearly impossible for him to start moving again-- and he couldn't name the reason why. All of a sudden, with Jess pulling down his pants, he felt... **_dirty_**. Unworthy. 

_"That's it, baby,"_

_"Taking it all like such a good boy,"_

Sam's heart was racing and it became hard to breathe, the tightness in his chest restricting and making him shudder. Dread and about a hundred other unpleasant emotions twisted his stomach, making it churn. He wished them all away, the images. It wasn't as if he'd been raped, like he made clear earlier, as this happened regularly and _with_ his consent. He spread his legs, knowing damn well what he was getting into with doing so, and did it anyway. He even begged for it. He _'took it like a good boy'_. Exactly how Gabe would have wanted him to, never mind his own pleasure. But he felt disgusting. Dirty. Self-loathingly so. 

Guilt. 

That was the word for what he was feeling. 

Guilt. 

"Sam?" A breathy, feminine voice brought him back to the present. "You okay, baby? What's the matter?" 

"N-nothing," It came out weak and Jess pushed him away just enough to look at him. Sam tried to avert his gaze, but Jess grabbed his chin in between her slender, but strong, fingers and forced him to look at her. 

"I don't believe you," She narrowed her gaze, still dark with desire that had yet to be sated. 

"I'm fine, Jess," Sam half-panted. Jess gave him a disbelieving look. "Really. I'm fine, babe," 

"Sam, just tell me--" 

"Are you on the pill?" Sam inquired, cutting her off. 

"Duh. I'm always on it," Jess said a matter of factly, as if it had been dumb of him to ask. 

Sam shimmied his hips and pulled his pajama pants the rest of the way down, just far enough to free his cock, which only took pulling them down to his knees to accomplish. He didn't want to take the rest of his clothes off. Didn't want Jess to have to touch him after what he'd done to her, and the worst part was that she was completely oblivious to all of it. The late work nights. Always having to stay late to 'lock up'. _He_ didn't want to touch her with his disgusting body, but he needed this. At least a little. And it seemed, by the way her legs were still spread wide and leaking the wetness he'd just been pleasantly drowning his thoughts in with, she needed it, too. Sam hated doing this to her, but he didn't want to talk. He didn't want to _think_. He wanted to be so high on her it would take hours to climb down from it. 

He didn't want to worry about a condom and waste time rolling it on. He just wanted to forget. 

Positioning himself, he gripped one of her hips. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, but then she closed it. Whenever Sam looked into her eyes, she nodded. It was subtle and wordless, but Sam understood what she meant. She was telling him it was okay. That she would drop it. That he could do this. 

And he pushed in. 

A gasp sounded from Jess' swollen, beautifully pink lips and a low groan escaped Sam's red and equally swollen. Sam pressed on with his hips, eyes not leaving Jess' as her tight, wet heat encased his cock and enveloped him in reassuring warmth. Jess was squeezed around him as he bottomed out, watching her expressions change with every inch. 

"Jess," Sam groaned softly as he pulled back and arched his hips forward again, his girlfriend's tight entrance giving way to him each time he did this. 

Her hands gripped his shoulders, clutching them tightly and digging in, making him hiss in the mixture of pain and pleasure. She mewled and gasped and moaned, the sinful noises filling his ears and only encouraging him. Her face twisted with pain at the beginning, but only until she adjusted, and then her eyes were threatening to roll back and close, but she fought it and gazed right back up at Sam. He worked his hips harder, her smaller, but ample body jostling back and forth with the rhythm of his hips. Jess' stomach pressed against his as she arched her back, starting to roll her hips again. She didn't push the slow, steady rhythm, but encouraged him instead, working her hips with his. 

The ache in Sam's backside started to make itself known. Like being sore after a workout, it just got worse and worse. He tried to focus on Jess. The way she felt wrapped around him. The small noises she would make. But none of it was enough. Before he had time to think, his hips began thrusting up into her at a more merciless pace, harder and faster. He swiveled them and instead of keeping the eye contact and the love making speed, he buried his head in her neck and pumped his hips harder and harder until there were no other words for what he was doing other than fucking her. 

"Fuck, _Sam_!" Jess keened and rolled her body against his, her nails digging deeper into his shoulders, scraping across the skin. 

Jess wrapped her legs around Sam's waist as he picked up the pace, groaning into her ear and neck, peppering bites and kisses all along there. It was starting to work. He couldn't think. His other hand, the one that wasn't holding her steady, reached up and cupped on of her perky breasts. It was firm and yet so soft. He squeezed it, simultaneously biting the curve of her neck, making her cry out. The noise was beautiful and loud and distracting all at the same time. Exactly what he needed. He fucked up into her growingly hard, his throbbing cock penetrating her hard and deep as he worked his long fingers to her nipples and pinched them, just hard enough to get a reaction out of her. She bucked and twisted under him, her body pure sex and pleasure and desire under him. So much so that it was overwhelming Sam. 

A warm feeling was coiling in his groin and he knew he wasn't going to last much longer. His breathing was ragged and his heart pounded against his chest. She was panting, too, and Sam knew her body. She was closer than he was. 

"Baby! Oh fuck yeah-- Sam, I'm so close!" She all but sobbed in pleasure. 

And close she was, because directly after that, her body convulsed and her nails sunk into his skin, even through the shirt that still cloaked his torso, a scream of heated pleasure filling his ears. She came, exploding and _clenching_ around him. It all tipped him over the edge and he shouted her name as he thrust one more time, coming deep inside of her. 

They both rode out their orgasms, and by the end of it, Sam pulled out and collapsed on top of her, leaving them both boneless and completely fucked out. 

It was silent up until Sam heard a quiet, "I love you," 

More silence. 

Sam rolled off of her and onto his back. He wanted to say, _"I don't deserve your love,"_. Something about her deserving better. Or even speaking the truth and telling her that he loved her back. Because he did. Sometimes, _most of the time_ , so much that it physically hurt him. But he was disgusting and someone like her needed someone as amazing as her to fuck her. Make love to her. Hold her. 

_Love her_. 

Nothing came out. 

Sam turned away from her, pulling his pants back up that managed to shimmy themselves down to his calves while he was fucking her. None of his clothes made it completely off. As much as he'd like to be naked with her, be that intimate and cuddle and hold her like she probably wants, he couldn't. 

An arm, small but firm, wrapped around him from behind, sliding an arm around his waist and then feeling a warm, sweat slick body press against the back of his clothed one. Clenching his jaw, feeling his eyes sting, he forced aside his own turmoil for a moment and intertwined his fingers with her smaller ones. He could feel her hot breath on the back of his neck and he closed his eyes as he took comfort in it, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. The most of an, "I love you, too," he could muster at the moment, staying silent. 

 

*`~*`*~* 

 

That night Dean had followed his new point of focus home. No, he actually didn't peek in the window, which he could have easily done so. He had heard enough. The creaking of a bed, gradually getting louder and louder, screams of ecstasy and groans of pleasure. Dean didn't need to see it to know what was going on. He was afraid he might lose it this go around, seeing Sam getting fucked by or fucking someone other than him.

One this was for certain, though, that wasn't going to be a problem much longer. The girl he was with, when he followed them back to their apartment, had blond hair-- a _perfect_ fit. It was the same girl from when he first saw Sam walking on the sidewalk together. She was all legs and had perky tits, Dean saw, and took his time appreciating before they disappeared behind their apartment door. His urges, on all but a handful of times, had never been so strong. He wanted to burn the apartment down with Sam safely at his side. He wanted to hear her scream in agony instead of ecstasy. See the home crumble to the ground and become nothing but ash and memories. 

_He_ wanted to be Sam's new home. 

But alas, he had to control himself, as hard as that may be. Palo Alto, California would have to remain untouched. At least until he has Sam all for himself. He wasn't going to kidnap and brainwash the man; he just wanted for Sam to _want_ him. Just as bad or even more than Dean wanted _him_. 

Needless to say, he didn't get much sleep that night. 

The two hours he got, the bare minimum of what he could function on, would be enough to last the day. Sam had invited him back, though Dean questioned whether or not the offer still stood. Giving him a blowjob right before his 'girlfriend' picked him up probably wasn't the smoothest move, but it got his attention, at least. 

Dean made a call up to Stanford. He was surprised when it didn't take much convincing to get Sam's schedule faxed to him. He did it in a library so it wouldn't be traced, just in case. But otherwise, there was no real effort that had to be put it. Not as if he's complaining, though. Sam had classes like Dean had urges; all the fucking time. He wondered truly how Sam was able to balance going to Stanford, had a girlfriend, a social life, _and_ a night job at the bar. Dean could barely manage more than one kill a week. Well, that was when he was being careful; _before_ he got caught and sent to prison. Now he stalked and killed. Stalked and killed. Nothing in between or before he had to worry about other than making it fast and getting the hell out of there before the police showed up. He was _not_ going back to prison.

After having followed Sam and _Jessica_ (he got her name with some minimal research) back to their apartment, he learned where they lived, and now that he had a schedule for when they would be home or not. Every meticulous serial killer's dream. But, unfortunately, he wasn't hunting. Not for a kill anyway (though Jessica seemed like a good fit to his MO). He wanted to learn more about Sam. His interests. What he likes and doesn't like. Anything that would give Dean an edge while he was forming their relationship.

Woah, relationship? 

The last time Dean had one of those (and not just romantically, but an everyday relationship with someone i.e. friend, partner, best friend, acquaintance, and etc.) he was probably in his Sophomore year of high school. 

My, how the time flies. 

Once he was sure both Sam and his girlfriend had left their apartment, Dean parked his black '67 Chevy Impala on the side of the road and casually strolled up. It was unlikely for anyone else around to be home, as most of them had jobs and other responsibilities, but he was still careful about how he composed himself. He acted like he lived here. Came here everyday and that he _wasn't_ breaking and entering. Well, he wasn't breaking. So just entering. Which all wasn't hard for a psychopath to pull off. Then he picked the lock with ease, as he's done it quite a lot with his occupation, and slipped inside unnoticed. 

Looking around, nothing really caught his eye. It looked like any apartment a college kid would own. There was a feminine touch to it; subtle, but definitely there. The walls were plain, other than a couple pictures here and there. Pictures of Sam, pictures of Jessica, pictures of Sam _and_ Jessica, and then people that Dean couldn't put a name to. Seemed like they may have been their parents, whether they be Jessica's or Sam's, Dean didn't know. Neither of them looked like Sam. Curiosity seemed to hook in and Dean knew then that he would be doing some more extensive research tonight. 

The bathroom had a few different things in it, but nothing out of the ordinary. Though there was a small amount of Anti-Anxiety medication that was in Sam's name. Seemed like it was running low. There there were a variety of different vitamins. Shampoos and conditioners, feminine products. 

Then he made it into the bedroom. It was relatively plain as well. The sheets were tossed and turned and Dean tried his best not to think about why. The smell of sex still lingered in the air and Dean clenched his jaw. _Focus on one thing at a time, buddy,_ Dean thought to himself as he ventured further inside. He looked at the bed again, nothing on it except dirty clothes and sheets, then to either of the bedside tables. They had drawers, but as Dean snooped through everyone of them, he came up with nothing. Though he did find a picture of Sam when he was younger (high school years, maybe?) and he found himself smiling at how lanky he looked. _Smiling_. Pudgy slightly in the middle, but the rest of him had been bone skinny and it looked like he hadn't grown into himself just yet. 

He put the picture back in its place, then moved on to the other drawers. 

He found condoms and, surprisingly enough, lube. He grinned at the former and furrowed his brow at the latter. Then it turned into a smirk. So Jessica liked to get freaky. 

Or maybe it was Sam. 

Fuck, he felt the heat grow underneath his collar. He closed the drawer, but swiped both a condom and the bottle of lube. The one condom probably wouldn't be missed, if they needed more, he doubted they would have any qualms going out and getting more, and the lube looked untouched. Forgotten. Perhaps they were going to use it, but then something came up and they never got around to it. 

Wouldn't that be hot; Dean fucking Sam with his and Jessica's condoms and lube. Dean grinned widely at the idea. And Sam wouldn't even know a thing. 

He closed the drawer and put the items on the bed for now. He needed to continue looking. 

Walking around, Sam saw many books sprawled about. Some fiction and some nonfiction. A _lot_ of law books. Some looked to have been read dozens of times with their worn spines and others looked new with their crisp outer cover and pages. A few of the larger ones looked to be for school; they were dog eared and different colored tabs were sticking out. For a moment he wondered what Jessica did, but his mind went straight back to Sam. 

Finding pretty much nothing, Dean furrowed his brow. He'd checked everywhere. Everywhere except... 

Dean walked back over to the bed and dropped down to his knees beside what he's certain is Sam's side of the bed, and leaned down, bracing himself with his hand on the wooden floor. He peeked underneath the bed and sighed when he found more books. Curious though, he reached underneath with his free hand and pulled a stack of books out from under the bed, sliding them out in front of him. He sat crisscross and picked up the one on top, seeing something he wasn't quiet expecting. He filed through the books one at a time. 

_Helter Skelter_ , _Human Monsters_ , _Dearly Devoted Dexter_ , _Darkly Dreaming Dexter_ , _I Am Not A Serial Killer_ , _American Psycho_. 

A wicked grin spread across Dean's features. 

So the kid has a serial killer fetish? Huh. 

What made it even better was how much of a guilty pleasure it must be for Sam. Hiding them under his bed like Dean had hid his porno mags in middle school up until his Senior year of high school. A sadistic smirk pulled at his lips, and he cocked an eyebrow. This was definitely some information he could use to his advantage. 

As he looked through the other books under the bed, just to make sure that this wasn't just coincidence and that Sam had many different types of books under here, that he organized them in a certain way. 

More Ted Bundy stuff, Jack the Ripper, all the classics.

To top it all off, there were also some newspaper clippings. It reminded Dean of the way he used to be whenever he'd kill. Newspaper clippings of his victim's obituaries were his trophies. Were _still_ his trophies. He lost all of the ones he'd collected before he was sentenced to life in prison, then taking to trial pending Death Row.

Dean came to the conclusion that it was _not_ a coincidence.

Later that day Dean waited in the bar. It was a few minutes after when Sam's shift should start, but Dean swallowed down any worry. It was too soon to tell if something was wrong or not. He was pleased (surprisingly enough) to see that Charlie was once again working the bar. She zoomed up and down, expertly passing drinks, sliding them down the surface of the counter.

"You look like you could use a drink... Want something strong?" Charlie questioned once she got down the line of costumers to him. 

Dean looked up and was about to nod when he decided against it, considering his options for a moment. "Nah," He sighed finally. "I'll just take a beer," 

"You sure?" 

"Yup," 

And with that, Charlie was pouring him a beer from the tap, filling a mug like Sam had yesterday. Dean needed to keep his wits about him tonight. As high as his alcohol tolerance was, he didn't want to put it to chance. Didn't want to let anything slip. A simple beer wouldn't be enough to make him have a loud mouth, but a few shots of whiskey might. 

After Charlie slid the mug over and went onto the next guy at the bar, there was a sudden rush of panic; if Sam knew so much about serial killers, how had he not heard of him? Dean Winchester, killer extraordinaire. Firebug with homicidal tendencies. Pyromaniac with major mommy issues and a psychopathic mindset. Dean recalled a time that whenever he had been caught, he couldn't go _anywhere_ without seeing his face plastered somewhere. Sam was _bound_ to have heard about him. And he just escaped prison of all things, his face should be on the news, shouldn't it? 

Hopefully not because not only was he in public right now, but there was a television overhead, just above a row of higher dollar drinks. It was on the news. 

Perhaps Dean could ask Sam about it. Not _directly_ , of course. That wouldn't turn out well. But he could get it out of him more indirectly, a simple question. Dean just had to figure out what. 

"Waiting for Sam?" 

Dean looked up from his mug and saw Charlie standing there in front of him again. It only took a moment for him to respond, but only with a slight nod of his head. Of course he was wondering where Sam was. Sam was the only reason he came here. The only reason that his girlfriend Jessica was still alive. 

"Someone's got a crush," Charlie grinned and winked, leaning against the counter with her elbow. "He called earlier. I mean, he's gonna be here and everything, just late," 

"Why?" He asked before he could stop to think about it. 

"I don't know. He didn't say," She shrugged and sat back up, running a hand through her red hair. "Sounded kinda bad, though," 

"Bad?" 

"Not--uh, not like he was deathly ill or anything," Charlie reassured, but for some reason Dean didn't feel any better. Was he feeling concern? "Just like he was really tired," 

Dean snorted. _Getting fucked, sucked, and then doing some fucking of your own can do that to you._ "Hm," Dean hummed, considering it as he brought the mug to his lips and tilted. 

"Yeah," Charlie sighed. "But like I said, should be here any minute," 

"Keep me company until then?" Dean murmured over the rim of the mug with a smirk playing along his lips. 

Charlie rolled her eyes. "As much as I'd love to, I have a job I need to get back to doing," She looked over to a particularly rowdy customer. "-these people won't serve themselves," And she walked down the bar to them, leaving Dean alone once more. 

Dean had never had a problem with being left alone, but now that he was paranoid, he found it hard to concentrate on anything but the _'what if'_ s. Though he lacked empathy and many other human emotions that came along with that, he didn't lack the ability to worry. Perhaps _'worry'_ wasn't the best word for it. Nor concern or anything else he could think of at the moment, but it would do. All he could really do for now is twiddle his thumbs and wait. Maybe Sam's _heard_ of him, but has never actually seen a picture of him? He'd have to lie about his last name if the subject came up. 

"Sorry!" 

Dean's attention snapped up and over to a familiar face framed with dark chestnut tresses. He hastily made his way over to the bar, narrowly escaping running into a rugged looking trucker before finally making back behind the bar. 

"It's fine, Sam," Charlie called over. "Just glad you got here when you did," 

Sam bent down behind the counter, looking to be throwing some things behind it, maybe a bag or something, and then he stood back up and raked a hand through his hair. It was a mess like the rest of him. If you'd seen him more than a couple times, at least. To other people he might look fine, but to Dean he didn't. There were dark circles under his eyes that were slightly puffy. It made Dean shift uncomfortably, though he didn't know why. And something filled him, like an emotion, concern maybe, but he didn't quite know for sure. 

Dean sipped his beer, his eyes not leaving Sam as he flew down the bar. Dean took to fingering the rim of his mug as he waited for his turn. When Sam finally got around to him, Dean had downed most of his drink. Sam didn't really look at him, maybe too many things on his mind or something, but reached for the mug, asking Dean a question that he didn't register, pausing and finally looking up to meet Dean's emerald gaze. He retracted his hand. 

"Oh, I--uh," Sam mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "You're back," 

"Don't sound _too_ happy to see me, now," Dean chuckled, cocking his head and quirking up one of his eyebrows. 

"Sorry, I just--" Sam apologized, but paused, andalusite eyes averting. "Wasn't expecting to see you again," 

Dean was tempted to tease him about the blowjob, say something that would make him inevitably blush and shy away, but he decided against it. "Something wrong?" He inquired just a bit _too_ innocently. "If it makes you uncomfortable that I'm here, I can just leave--"

"No! I mean, no," Sam chipped a bit too fast, but quickly recomposed himself. Dean had no intention of leaving. At least, not without Sam. 

"Mhm," Dean hummed, arching an eyebrow. When Sam opened and closed his mouth to speak a couple of times, but nothing came out, Dean sighed and shifted forward in his seat. With the information he had discovered earlier, it only added to his cocky demeanor. "My beer?" He glanced down at the almost empty mug and then back up at Sam. 

Sam shook his head, as if he were trying to clear his mind. "Yeah, right. Of course," He took the mug by the handle and then filled it up with the tap again, pushing it back across the counter a small ways to Dean. 

"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean purred and it got the desired response from the other male; his face flushed. 

Sam nodded a 'No problem', and then went to attend to the other patrons. 

The night droned on without Sam to keep Dean company, albeit despite this he stayed in his spot, his eyes on the television. Yet again, a small strain of panic ignited his nerves, causing a tame, but still very _there_ , fire to burn in his chest, set his mind alight with a form of worry only a person who'd killed countless people (that wasn't what was bothering him) and barely escaped prison a couple months ago. He was far from the state he'd been imprisoned in, but he was wanted all over the States. And he was just _waiting_ for a cop with a chip on his shoulder to come along and try and catch him. A big break for their most likely _pathetic_ career. He wasn't going to let that happen, though. He'd be careful. He'd have to resist his homicidal urges, though, if only for a little bit. That was like asking an alcoholic to go a couple days without drinking; hard, but manageable if you put your mind to it. 

"He leave you alone?" Charlie's voice chimed into Dean's thoughts. 

"Hm?" He looked up, spotting the blue-green eyes he'd grown... _fond_ of seeing. Two days into this infatuation and Sam had him feeling things for _other_ people to. Though, he's _not_ deluded. He knows what he's feeling now isn't real; that it really _was_ just infatuation. Nothing more. Maybe less. It was his subconscious mind trying to cope with the fact that he really couldn't feel things. At least, nothing truly real. And apparently real was very important to the human's entire makeup. "Oh, nah. He's just busy," Dean sipped his beer. He was starting to get a little cloudy, but it was nothing compared to what a couple shots of whiskey could do. 

"Mm," Charlie hummed, drying a mug with a rag. Dean watched her, arching an eyebrow as she seemed to be watching him, too. Examining him. "Did you two sleep together last night?" 

Dean was startled by the question, yes, but other than his eyes widening by just a fraction, he remained in control. He swallowed the mouthful of beer instead of spitting it, like someone else might do in a situation such as this. "No," He shook his head, tilting it slightly in wonder. "Actually, we didn't, if it's any of your business," There was no bite to his words, not wanting to get thrown out, and besides, he liked the girl. 

"Sam's my friend, of course it's my business," Charlie snapped a matter of factly, setting the, now, dry mug down and pulling another wet one from under the bar and beginning to dry that one off.

"Touche," Dean cocked his head some, considering it. "But it was kind of a dick move when you failed to mention he had a _girlfriend_ ," It was a dick move. But it's not like that aspect of that really bothered him. Shit, he wouldn't mind it if the girl _joined_ them, because Dean was bound and determined to fuck Sam. One way or another. But the problem with it was that he wasn't expecting it, especially not after he took his boss' cock so nice, like a fucking pro, and had no problem with Dean sucking him off afterward. Dean didn't like surprises. He liked being in control. 

Charlie flushed at that and worried her lower lip a little, her speedy hands slowing as she seemed to be thinking about what Dean said. "Yeah..." She finally spoke. "Sorry about that... It's just--" She didn't finish, only trailed off and averted her gaze to the mug. 

"It's just what?" Dean pressed. 

"It's just--" The redhead stopped yet again, but when Dean opened his mouth to urge her on one more, she went on. "He's not happy. Hasn't been for awhile... Don't really know what's going on with him. I mean - he loves Jessica, anyone with eyes can see that much-" Dean clutched his drink in his hand tighter and felt his hand clench around the glass. There's that pesky jealousy again. "-but he's just not... happy. I think he needs something new and you're _definitely_ new. Besides-" Charlie's voice lowered some and she looked around a bit as if to make sure that Sam wasn't around to here it. He wasn't. "-I think Jessica is the wrong. . . _gender_ , if you will,"

And just like that, Redhead redeemed herself. Dean smiled almost _triumphantly_ at that. 

"And I see the way he looks at you-" Charlie began and rolled her eyes as Dean grimaced at the cliche line. "You know what I mean - he just goes all schoolgirl crush ogling whenever he looks at you," 

Dean made a noise of approval around a mouthful of beer. After he swallowed, he pursed his lips a bit. "What do you think I should do?" Normal human interactions - the day to day ones that everyone seemed to flow easily with - are not in Dean's skill set. Not at all. Sure, he knows what to say and how to say it whenever he wants to get laid, but that's only for a night. He wanted Sam to stay with him longer than that. He hated this; not being in control. Whatever Sam did was up to him and Dean hated that so much it almost hurt him physically. Dean wasn't used to that. His victims were never in control, and if they were, it was never for very long. And then they'd lose it all whenever they bled out of burned to death. They lost all the control they had whenever their houses were crumbling around them or Dean had a blade against their throats. He wasn't used to not having control. 

"Take him home with you," Charlie said bluntly, her eyes trained on the new mug she was drying. 

There was a scoff in the back of his throat. 

She looked up and all but groaned. "Take him home with you, show him a good time, make him feel good. Make him remember you," 

After a moment of thought, Dean decided that that actually was some good advice. Maybe one night could turn into a few days the next go around. Making Sam remember him would be the easy part. Getting him to come along with him - now _that_ was the tricky part.

Tricky part remedied. When Sam took a bathroom break, to which Dean nonchalantly followed him. Thankfully they were going through one of the slower nights of the week and hours in the evening, so Dean only had to wait for one other man to leave the bathroom before talking freely with Sam. Sure, the bathroom wasn't the best place, but where else? As much as he'd love to show everyone exactly who Sam belonged to, he didn't want to make anything worse on Sam (i.e. His boss seeing and revoking that raise or someone in the bar knowing Sam and reporting it back to Jessica). It just wouldn't end up well.

Sam didn't even notice Dean at first. He kept his head low, his eyes lower. He didn't even look up until he'd finished washing his hand and Dean leaned against the sink right beside him, looking at Sam. Sam looked at Dean through the mirror and then raised his eyes to look at Dean, and the eldest met the youngest widened eyes with a grin. 

"You should keep your head up," Dean greeted him finally, seeming to relieve some of the stress in the room. "Confidence is sexy," 

"Then I guess I'm not sexy," Sam shot back, averting his gaze, and he went for a paper towel, beginning to dry his hands. 

Dean nearly snorted in reply, humor clear in his emerald eyes. "You're _beyond_ sexy, sweetheart," 

Sam froze, slowly looking up and over at Dean. "Quit calling me that," He ordered slowly, furrowing his brow at Dean, who in return merely smirked. 

"Why?" Dean got closer, pressing his body against Sam's side, his head inching onto the taller male's shoulder. "Is it because it makes you hot?" Dean's voice lower to a rumbling purr, hot breath on Sam's ear, his lips purposefully grazing the flesh there. 

"Dean. . ." Sam's voice came out a crackly mess, but he didn't move from Dean's hips half pressing him into the sink. "Please don't," 

"If you really don't want me to-" Dean lowered his voice even more, practically a teasing whisper by this point. "- _move_ ," 

Much to Dean's pleasure, Sam didn't move. Not a muscle. A silent way of saying yes - perhaps making him feel better about it. Making it easier so that he didn't have to say the words. Dean didn't mind, though. He'd given Sam a chance to go, and he stayed. What else was he supposed to do? 

"Good boy," Dean purred. Sam shuddered in response, his eyes on Dean in the mirror, Dean's eyes straight on Sam. Dean's hand came up and splayed over Sam's stomach, then started heading south until he reached the slight bulge of Sam's jeans. And fuck did the man look good in those jeans. Fucking splendid. Sam's dick jumped under Dean's palm and Sam, himself, shivered. Dean reveled in how responsive he was. Then a hand was clapping over Dean's and stilling the kneading it had picked up. 

"W-wait," 

"What is it?" Dean furrowed his brow and stilled his hand, himself, but Sam didn't move his. 

"I. . . uhm," Sam gulped. Dean watched as his Adam's apple bobbed. Sam turned, facing him. "Did you - _ya know_ \- last night?" 

Dean's brow only creased further in confusion, evoking an elaboration from Sam. 

"Did you. . ." Sam trailed off again. If Sam didn't fucking spit it out - 

"Sammy-baby, if you don't fucking spit it out, I'm going to bend you over this sink and fuck it out of you," Dean bit out with conviction, smacking Sam's ass with his free hand for emphasis. 

" _Come_ ," Sam blurted in response to the ass slapping. "Did you come last night?" 

Dean all but laughed aloud. Sam was worried about whether or not he got to come last night? Cute. "Sweet boy," He lowered his tone again, purring into Sam's ear. "I came in my pants while I was sucking your cock," 

"Holy fuck," Sam's eyes widened, and underneath Dean's palm, Dean felt Sam's cock jerk, hardening even further. Sam's hand fell from Dean's and allowed Dean to continue kneading his palm into his clothed, growing erection. 

"Tasted so fucking good, sweetheart," Dean dug the heel of his hand into Sam's dick. "Never been on my knees for anyone, baby boy, but I was so glad I did for you," 

Sam was a panting mess by the time that Dean got the other's cock out and started stroking it. It didn't hold the gentleness that was held in Dean's other touches. He made sure to hold Sam, steadying him when he swayed, ease him whenever he shuddered. But his hand worked Sam's cock hard and fast, making the youngest putty in his hands, practically a writhing, panting mess. Dean's dick was already throbbing and hard in his jeans, painfully straining his pants. All of that only encouraged Dean further to pump Sam's cock. God, he was big. It didn't quite fit his thin yet muscled body just yet. 

Stroking the heated flesh faster, Dean felt Sam start to thrust up into his hand, meeting it perfectly over and over again. Sam was panting Dean's name, and it left his lips so beautifully. Like his mouth was made for Dean's name and Dean's name only. 

Dean grunted, a little out of breath himself. "Come for me, baby boy," 

That was all Sam needed to absolutely _explode_ in Dean's hand. The wall and the mirror were splashed with Sam's come as they came from him in thick ropes, spilling over Dean's hand, and Dean could tell it took everything Sam had to not cry out as he rode out the waves of his orgasm, Dean helping him along. Sam's face was absolutely stunning whenever he came; his eyes squeezing shut, his upper lip twitching and curling as his face contorted with pleasure. The way he would throw his head back, his hair moving fucking gorgeously with him, bouncing with the way his body convulsed. Dean could watch this all day. 

"That's it, Sammy. That's it," Dean purred, giving Sam a good couple more strokes before stilling his hand around Sam's softening dick. 

"Fuck," Sam gasped, collapsing sideways into Dean, to which Dean released Sam's cock to hold him steady. 

When Sam came down from his high, he groaned at the mess he'd made. It was dripping down the wall and mirror. Fuck, he'd have to clean that up - 

"Don't worry about it," Dean murmured in his hair, sensing the shift in Sam's thoughts. 

"Are you sure -" 

"Yes," Dean cut him off, thinking on some things of his own for a moment. He decided to be blunt. Blunt was definitely in his range of expertise. "Come home with me tonight," 

Sam moved in his arms, pulling away to look at him. Sweat still adorned his forehead. "What?" 

"Tonight. After work. Come home with me," Dean repeated, being slightly more specific. 

"I can't -" Sam shook his head. 

"'Cause of your _girlfriend_ ," Dean finished, almost mocking. Sam frowned at him, furrowing his brow, and averted his gaze down, beginning to stuff his cock back into his jeans and zip and button himself back up. "All I'm asking for is one night. You can tell her you found somewhere closer to crash," He closed the space between them again, and Sam stiffened. "All I wanna do is make you feel good. C'mon, sweetheart. Whatd'ya say?" Dean grinned hopefully.

Again, there was no reply from Sam. He kept his head low. 

"If you want," Dean began, his voice gentle as he reached up and ran the back of his index finger down Sam's face, and Dean was pleased whenever he felt Sam lean into the touch. "-we could always just sleep. . . We could talk, too," 

That caught Sam's attention, and he looked up then and gave Dean a funny look. 

Dean sighed. He wasn't much of a talker himself, psychopathic killer and all, but he loved Sam's voice. Loved Sam's company. Love being a go-to term for what he felt for it. Seeing as he couldn't feel anything, not according to experts, this was all pure infatuation. Chemicals in his mind going off, but nothing more. An obsession. 

"Don't look at me like that," Dean smirked, amusement dancing in his hues, but then they softened into something more serious - the closest he could get to genuine. "You look like you could use someone to talk to," Even Dean could tell that much. "-and I don't really know you, you don't really know me. I've always found it easier to talk to someone when I don't know them-" I.e. His _victims_ , but Sam didn't need to know that detail. "-when someone can't really judge you. . . Seeing as you're juggling college, a girlfriend, a handsy boss, and who knows what else, it would probably be of your _benefit_ to come home with me," Dean found that overwhelming, himself, and he couldn't even really, _genuinely_ feel anything. It seemed physically and mentally exhausting. 

Sam stared off for a moment, his face changing as if he was considering it. Finally, after who knows how long of waiting, Sam looked back to Dean with his fucking gorgeous andalusite eyes, serious as the day is long. "Fine," He announced. "But - uh, but no talking. Got it?" 

Dean nodded, a wide, victorious smile spreading across his face. No talking? Dean could do that. 

With that, Sam left without another word, and Dean looked to the come-covered wall and mirror, nearly having the wind knocked out of him as he came to a realization. 

Sam had helped him make yet another masterpiece. No, not one in blood and flames, but in Sam's come. Something, that when taken, wouldn't end a life. Maybe even rejuvenate one. He'd painted the walls white instead of red. And what struck him even harder was at how satisfying that was. The high Dean was feeling - it was horrifyingly close to that of what he felt after a kill. He felt his heart picking up, his blood pumping faster, the raging hard on he was sporting jerking with approval in his pants, his hands shaking with the adrenaline that was pounding through his system. 

With reluctance, satisfaction, and a shaky hand, Dean ripped some towels from the dispenser and started to do as he promised Sam and cleaned up, a grin gracing his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm, so much anticipation for the next chapter!(; It's gonna be a good one.


	3. Bestride and Mold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional slumber parties are not an empathy-lacking serial killer's strong suit. But control and sex are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting this one out to you guys. Ugh, I swear the next one will be better. This was just a lot of focusing on one thing when I should have probably went from this thing to that thing back to the other thing and then to another thing. I don't know. Just let me know what you think? I tried to give you a bit more insight on the whole emotions aspect to Dean's character in this story, but I'm afraid that I might have made it more confusing. Whoops. What can you do? 
> 
> {Tried to rush-type this so that you guys would finally get to read something. I promise more smut is in the near future. Some rather delectable smut, too, if you ask me.(; }

"I thought you said your place was closer than mine," Sam mumbled sleepily from the passenger's seat.

"No," Dean chuckled slightly, shaking his head. "I told you to tell your girlfriend that," 

"Mm," Sam hummed tiredly. Dean looked over, catching a glimpse of brown green before lids covered them. 

It was actually happening - Dean had managed to coax Sam into not _only_ lying to his beloved girlfriend, but to actually come along with him. Dean could feel his heart beating wildly with anticipation as the ride in the car got longer. He _might_ have taken a couple back roads here and there, as much of a back road you could get to in Palo Alto, to draw out the ride somewhat. He didn't know why exactly - maybe because he saw how tired Sam was and wanted him to fall asleep. When Dean was younger and he'd have trouble sleeping, his Uncle Bobby would, no matter the time of night, take Dean out for a ride and it never failed to lull Dean to sleep. Whenever he wasn't so lucky as to be staying with his uncle, his dad would always tell him to deal with it or stop whining and just go the fuck to sleep, or _something_. Dean had hoped Sam would be the same when it came to car rides - and, obviously, he was. Dean found himself smiling. 

Soft rock was filling the silence in the car. Dean made sure to have it low so it wouldn't disturb Sam, and so that he could find some kind of comfort in the small little snores the younger man would let out in his sleep. It was almost cute. His chestnut tresses draping his forehead and almost so long that it hung in his eyes. The seat was reclined back and he was curled up, facing Dean, giving him a good look at his face. When he slept, Sam looked more at peace, and it made Dean wonder what all really goes on in that beautiful head of his. 

Thrumming his thumbs on the steering wheel lightly, Dean drove smoothly through the streets. It was late at night, but the streets were still busy - it _was_ California, after all. It was especially busy near night clubs and various titty bars, and even a few modernized regular bars. The lights were pretty, the women were even prettier, but Dean continuously found his eyes wandering back over to Sam. The tanner male stirred slightly in his sleep, his expression ever changing - going from one of confusion to one of almost _pain_. His lip curling up, and not in the way he'd seen it whenever Sam was coming in the bathroom earlier. Dean was tempted to rouse him - not liking his face twisting like that, it almost made him angry - but he refrained. More angry at whatever was bothering him when he looked so calm. Finally, though, what stopped him was Sam relaxing back into his slack-jawed slumber. 

Another thing that started to tick Dean off was how Sam was falling asleep in a car with a stranger. Sure, Dean'd sucked his dick and given him a handy, but that didn't mean anything. Dean could be a -. . . Well, he _was_ a serial killer, so this only proved his point further. Good thing that Sam wasn't his type for fires and painting with red. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean calmed his nerves that were so sensitive when it came to Sam. He never gave a shit like that before. He could count on one hand the number of times he had felt this way about anyone. His mom when he was three and four (the only two ages he could even begin to really remember her, four being the more vivid of the two) and Bobby, and that's just before Dean went to jail. Now that his mother was dead and Bobby probably wanted nothing to do with him, he was back to feeling nothing. Or rather, feeling like he was feeling something. A fondness for others. He knew nothing he felt was real. That was what his therapist told him when he was younger, so it must be true, right?

Pushing those nasty, _toxic_ thoughts out of his head, Dean pulled up to the motel finally. Not exactly the nicest of places, but it was the best place he could get without increasing his chances of being caught. Pfft, _caught_. As if he'd let that happen again. More like spotted. If someone called the cops on him after recognizing him, that could turn out messy. And not only would he have to flee, but he'd have to leave Sam behind. He just couldn't let something like that happen. The fleeing he didn't mind - he lived the life of a vagabond long before he was of age to do so. As soon as he could drive, he went all sorts of places and stayed with shady people (much to John's disliking). But now that Sam was a very _real_ thing that he could lose - . . . He just couldn't allow it.

Dean parked the Impala and looked over to the sleeping Sam. His too-long legs had shifted, and so had his body, but he was still facing Dean. Something about that Dean couldn't stop himself from half smiling at. The kid was lanky, but he was all muscle, too. Like he was still growing into his twenty two year old body. His hair, the way it framed his face, made him look all the more younger. That was until he'd stand up and have a good few inches on Dean. All of these observations made Dean want to jump Sam right then and there, claim him in the back seat, but he decided strongly against it. He'd save something that special for another night. Fucking Sam in Baby was definitely something he'd have to fantasize about more often. 

Letting Sam sleep for a few more minutes before rousing him seemed like Dean's best bet, so he silently sunk back into his seat after retrieving his keys from the ignition, listening to the soft pants of Sam's sleep. Fuck's sake, he was like a gigantic _puppy_. The stirring, his face, the little snores. But the way his eyes resembled the sinful shape of a fox's and how he mewled like a cat sneaked into Dean's mind. There was a curious jerk in his pants and he felt them slowly begin to feel tight. He gripped his thighs and closed his eyes, leaning his head back. He focused on other things - like his own breathing - to calm himself down. He didn't want to get all worked up and then have Sam not be in the mood for it. Or if Sam just wanted to sleep instead, which is what Dean imagined Sam would be doing when they got in the motel room. 

Dean opened his eyes and released his thighs, reaching over and patting Sam's thigh instead. "Hey," Dean roused him quietly. Surprisingly, Sam's eyes blinked half-open a couple times until he could consistently keep them open. "We're here. I'd carry you in there if you weren't so friggin' gargantuan," 

There was a tired scowl that adorned Sam's face, pulling the corners of his lips down. "Fuck off," 

"Mm," Dean hummed, amused. "C'mon, you can crash again once we get inside. See? I parked nice and close to the room so you wouldn't have to walk far," He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the room, not more than two or three meters anyway. 

"Such a gentleman," Sam mused with a sleepy grin. 

"Yep, that's me," Dean ruffled Sam's hair a bit, and got the desired reaction from it; a pissed off Sam jolting up and smacking his hands away, then trying to smooth it over with a few strokes of his hands. 

"Jerk," He bit out with a pout. 

Dean laughed. "Bitch," 

That earned Dean another scowl, but Sam sat up and eventually got out of the car, and Dean quickly followed suit after locking the doors. 

Once inside after Dean had gotten out the room key and unlocked the door, he politely opened the door for Sam, Dean closed the door and locked it again, tossing the keys onto the desk at the side of the room. It was a tacky place; the walls were a pale, needs-to-be-repainted beige color and the sheets atop the queen-sized mattress were unflattering floral patterns, faded from so many washes. The shit lighting was a yellow-ish light in the center of the ceiling of the main part of the room. The bathroom was off to the side; small but functions relatively well. The mint green tiles and orange curtains for the shower was atrocious, though. Other than that and a desk and a couple of duffels, there wasn't much else in the room. Well, besides the gorgeous piece of ass that walked in - and Dean _wasn't_ talking about himself.

"So you live in a motel room?" Sam inquired, looking around the room. He seemed to be more awake now.

Dean nodded hesitantly, considering the question. "I don't stay in one place very long. Getting a more permanent residence somewhere would be pointless," 

Sam pursed his lips, cocking his head back and forth as his eyes wandered around. "You're not gonna, like,-" Sam's eyes shifted over to Dean, facing him. "-steal one of my kidneys and leave me in a tub of ice or anything, are you?" 

"If I wanted to do that, I would have already done it," Dean chuckled, striding over closer to Sam. "Ya know, it's not all that safe falling asleep in a stranger's car," 

Sam's cheeks heated noticeably, blushing, but he stepped forward anyhow, closing the space between them before Dean even could. "I'm pretty sure blowing and jerking me, ' _strangers_ ' isn't really the right word anymore," 

The older huffed a laugh, slipping his hands onto the other man, sliding them down to his hips and getting a handful of them before squeezing lightly. The youngest made a noise in the back of his throat that Dean took as a sign of approval. He brought the other's hips closer, drawing them to his own, and he groaned softly at the way they slotted together, even while clad in denim, like they were made to do this. Dean's cock twitched with excitement in his pants and once again he felt his jeans tightening. With Sam, it didn't take much. Not at all. 

Licking his lips, Dean's eyes traveled over the other's body. From where they touched at their groins to Sam's abdomen, chest, what little collar bone he could see with Sam's jacket on, and then the delicious, downright addictive curve to his neck. His jawline, chin, where his dimples would be if he were smiling, his _lips_. Dean wondered what they'd feel like sinking down on his own cock. Sam would look fucking gorgeous on his knees. Especially with those andalusite eyes that just had to look at him in that heated way he was now and it'd suddenly feel twenty degrees hotter. Like it did in this moment. Dean wanted to tear off every shred of their clothing then and fuck Sam into next week. Split him open on his dick. Oh, _fuck_ , the idea of Sam's riding him ran through his mind and he thought he might come in his pants again like the hormonal teenager he'd been lately - but only when it came to this beautiful man in front of him. 

"God, _Sammy_ ," Dean breathed, his hands giving Sam's hips another squeeze, dragging their hips together. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, you know that?" 

Another blush painted Sam's cheeks and Dean wondered if he got that often. Dean didn't even think he was gay, or bi, or whatever the fuck he was, until Sam came around. Sure, he'd been curious here and there, but this is the only time he'd ever been serious about taking on someone other than a person of the chick variety. _'Too much dick, not enough tit for me,'_ is something he'd always have to say in his prison days whenever someone would ask him why he didn't have a bitch. As tempting as the idea was, Dean had to take a pass on it. Thinking with his dick wasn't going to break him out of that hell hole, now was it? Plus, none of the guys in that place, not even the twinks who'd gotten in there for petty theft or something stupid like that, even remotely compared to _Sam_. 

Instead of saying something back, Sam leaned into Dean and pressed his lips to Dean's, and Dean realized this would be their first kiss. Perhaps he should have started with this instead of going full throttle with blow and hand job. Pfft, whatever. With Dean, it was go big or go home, and with Sam, he _definitely_ wasn't going to go home unless he got Sam to come home with him. 

Dean moved his lips expertly with Sam's tentative, hesitant ones. He could taste a faint trace of alcohol on his lips, like he had a sip or two of beer. But Dean obviously didn't mind, seeing as he was a functioning alcoholic. He rather enjoyed Sam's taste. Both here and down below. There was something more intimate about kissing him, though. And the way that Sam's hands came up and laced in his hair, tugging on it gently. Dean knew what it meant though, after a moment. He was going to have to move this along if he wanted it moving, because Sam wasn't going to take the initiative here. With the way he sucked at Dean's lower lip, he was begging Dean. 

He pushed Sam at the hips with his own, walking Sam backwards to the bed. He didn't stop until Sam's calves had the mattress digging into them and then Dean pulled away and splayed his hands against Sam's chest. Fuck, did it feel nice. But he pushed Sam backwards anyway, and the other landed backwards on the bed, bouncing a couple of times on the mattress with creaks of protest from the springs. Perhaps they were shrieks of encouragement instead. Dean decided to think of it as the latter, grinning down at the younger man, a faint smirk adorning the other's lips.

Surprising even himself, Dean took his time undressing Sam. Trailed his hands up Sam's thighs, to hook into the waistband of the jeans that fit him so well. Sam canted out his hips, biting his lower lip - it made Dean think of a kind of innocence, which this man was certainly _not_. In _any_ form of the term, either. Okay, maybe in a sense that he'd never killed anyone before, unlike Dean, but everything else was. . . Well, innocent just wasn't the word. Though, Dean would have never seen Sam as the type of person to cheat, to sleep with his boss for some sort of benefits. Then Dean was sliding Sam's pants off, his boots and one of his socks coming along with them. Dean smirked, amusement in his eyes.

With the way he was seeing Sam now, Sam was anything but innocent. His fox eyes glinting with unmistakable deviance, hair hanging in his face and darkening his eyes. There was something _in_ them, though, that was dark. Something that Dean just barely caught a glimpse of, but had definitely been there. It reminded him of himself. When he'd look in the mirror, emerald meeting emerald. The darkness that marred his own was mirrored in the andalusite of Sam's. There was a sudden rush that coursed through him, and the next thing he knew, he was tearing his shirt off, then Sam's and the last two scraps of clothing on the younger man's body; his boxers and a sock, revealing his heavy and and hard cock.

When Dean looked back up Sam's body, the darkness that he'd seen a glimpse of in his andalusite eyes was shrouded with something different. Something that Dean couldn't exactly put his finger on at first. Dean had been enraptured by the dark tint to his eyes, mesmerized so it was almost impossible to look away, but now the same thing was happening, but with a different emotion in Sam's eyes. Maybe it was because of the pure power behind the emotion and that was the reason Dean suddenly felt uneasy. Seeing as he can't really. . . _feel_ , there was nothing in his mind that he could revert back to and draw answers out of. Not a one. Dean was pretty certain that he'd never even deluded himself into thinking he'd ever felt an emotion that powerful. Maybe whenever John had looked at him in _that way_ after Dean had been arrested, but never again. 

Sam's eyes started to take on a reddish tint that enhanced the green in his eyes in a beautiful way, but somehow Dean didn't find himself smiling fondly at the effect. Instead, a frown marred his full lips. The other's eyes got watery, liquid pooling at his ducts and along his water line. Sam's brow furrowed and he averted his gaze, sniffing. Something tightened unpleasantly in Dean's chest and he tilted his head some at Sam. Just until he realized what the hell was happening. 

Sam was _crying_. 

Dean thought that maybe he'd said something to offend Sam, but as he thought back, there was nothing he had said in the last minute or so. Nothing made sense for him to be upset about - at least, nothing that Dean could see anyway. That was until he remembered his own words earlier that evening; that Sam had a lot going on. He remembered that people sometimes cried when they were overwhelmed. Maybe there was more than just what Dean saw that was bothering Sam - and that irritated him. Not knowing didn't suit Dean very well. He wanted to know every aspect of Sam's life, internal and external. 

"'M sorry," Sam blinked away the tears and wiped them with the backs of his hands once they would fall. 

Dean stilled. He had never known what to do when people were upset. He tried to think of a time he'd been upset like this and couldn't find one. The last time he cried was when he was nine and fell off his bike and fucked up his knee pretty bad - but that was physical pain. Nothing close to emotional pain, Dean realized. Because emotional pain wasn't something he'd experienced since his mother burned to death when he was four. But then he looked in his mind for any shred of well, _anything_ , that could help him in this situation. Books, shows, movies. Anything. 

Then he remembered seeing someone in public cry before - one time in particular standing out to him. Dean had thought it pathetic at the time, but now as tears ran down Sam's cheeks, he thought it was anything but. The person who had been sobbing was rambling uncontrollably to the person rubbing circles on the crier's back. The person rubbing circles' mouth didn't move once in this exchange except to coo words. Shushes and 'it's okay's.

"Sam. . ." Dean furrowed his brow. Something twisted in his gut, something he couldn't place. It wasn't an emotion - he knew that. It wasn't a side effect of one. It was more. . . a _nauseous_ feeling. Something he wasn't used was actually urging him on. He'd felt this before, but only a few times. When he was expected to do something, the anxiousness he'd feel. Not something he liked. Not at all, actually. But he persevered and figured the only way to make it better was to help make Sam better. Whether that be rubbing his back in circles and cooing or fucking his brains out. 

Dean crawled onto the bed, his eyes trained on Sam even though his were averted off to the side, his hair in his face as if he were trying to hide it. "Don't be sorry," Dean murmured softly. Sam's body jerked suddenly, his shoulders trembling, and a tiny noise escaped Sam's throat - it was obvious that he was holding something back. " _Hey_ , hey, c'mere," Dean cooed, sitting on the bed and situating himself so he was sitting, back up against the headboard. He hooked his right arm around the middle of Sam's naked form and pulled him closer, up and onto him, allowing him to wrap around his left arm around Sam, too. The younger of the two made a noise of protest, garbled by the way there seemed to be something vocal stuck in his esophagus. Something about this was unnerving to Dean. He normally tried to _avoid_ these kinds of situations at any and all costs. But here he was, willingly scooping the source of his discomfort into his arms and was now _rocking_ it a little. Swaying his body a bit and running his hands up and down Sam's sides. 

Soon Sam stopped with his stubbornness and found himself burrowing in the comforting warmth rocking him, twisting his body so that he could bury his head into Dean's chest, which Dean welcomed with a tightening of his embrace. Normally Dean liked to hear crying, sobs, liked to see people quaking with terror and sorrow, loved to hear their screams, but not now. Now he just wanted Sam to be okay. For him to wipe his eyes and flash that fucking incredible smile of his. He didn't like it when a sob tore through Sam's chest and he started to feel something wet soak through the fabric of his shirt at his chest. The way Sam's fingers curled into his shirt and clutched the fabric like he needed grounding. 

Dean's arms tightened. 

He didn't say anything like 'it's okay' or 'it's gonna be okay' because Dean didn't know enough about Sam to say that. It'd always irritate him when grownups would say that whenever he was growing up. The nerve. He remembered the anger that would flare up when they'd say that - especially after his mother died. Obviously, seeing as Dean had killed countless innocent people (depending on what you consider an 'innocent' person) and was planning on doing more with no remorse, it was most certainly _not_ okay. 

Sam cried softly into Dean's chest, even harder whenever Dean's fingers laced through his hair. He knew he didn't deserve this affection - the comfort. It was his own fault why he was so fucked up, but yet here he was. Taking advantage of Dean's kindness. 

This went on for awhile, and soon enough Sam stopped trembling, his sobs reduced to small sniffles here and there. Dean was thankful. He didn't know how long was enough time to rock someone, to know what to say or really do outside of it. Then the clenching of Sam's fist in his shirt lessened and his body relaxed slightly. He murmured another apology, to which Dean only dismissed with a brush of his fingers through Sam's shaggy chestnut hair. Even to Dean, that was soothing. The kid had really fucking soft hair. It was like his own form of relief from the uncomfortable situation this all was for him. 

Sam pulled away suddenly, leaving Dean a bit confused - his brow furrowed. He heard the other sniffle and then saw him wipe his eyes with the backs of his hands as he sat up. Dean followed suit and straightened out. " _God_ ," Sam gushed out in a bittersweet laugh. "I'm pathetic," 

If Sam were any other person, Dean would have blatantly agreed. Just because when he _did_ hear people cry, it was them begging for their lives. He took some sort of sadistic _pleasure_ in how pathetic their cries were. But with Sam, it was anything but. Dean didn't find any real pleasure in the way tears stained his cheeks, how turmoil twisted in his reddened andalusite eyes, the way his face was blotchy with confined emotions. Over the years, Dean had gotten good at reading people. Their body language. Analyzed their words and how they said them. Their tone whenever they're speaking. When you can't genuinely feel anything, you have to learn to fit in. Learn how to be human and learn how to hide the monster just below the surface. So, with Sam, he could see it all. The way he held his body away, head hung and allowing for his chestnut tresses to hand in his face - as if he were trying to hide the darkness in his own eyes, how his fingers run anxiously, nervously up and down small patches of bare skin on his thighs. 

Even though he could see it - categorize it - give it a name, he didn't know what to do or say. How he could make it better. When he wanted Sam to spend the night, this wasn't exactly what he hand in mind. Sure, he said talk. That was because he was good at listening; because he had absolutely nothing to say in return. He could absorb and not reciprocate. 

_Sex_ on the other hand. Sex is something he could do. Something that Dean was great- pfft, _fantastic_ at. He prided himself with his skill set when it came to the bedroom (or bathroom, living room, kitchen, whichever's closest), almost as much as he did when it came to his kills. He was great at that, too. So good that he could be what he considered sloppy and still have the police chasing their own tails. Sex was something that didn't require emotions. Sex. Fucking. Making love, not so much, but he's never had to do that. It was a stress reliever. Something Dean could always come back to. 

"Sam. . ." Dean placed a hand on Sam's bare shoulder, fingers squeezing lightly. "Sam, c'mere," 

Sam clenched his jaw, turning his face completely out of Dean's view. "No- . . . Dean I--" 

Before Dean gave him any time to finish his protest, he scooped Sam up again. This time pulling Sam's naked form onto his denim-clad lap. Sam was heavy, but it was pure muscle and bone - and his long hair might attribute to that - that made his weight what it was. One of Dean's arms went around Sam's back, the other hooking around the front of his middle, fingers giving Sam's side a stern squeeze. "Talk to me, baby boy," Dean's voice was low and throaty. 

"You don't wanna--" 

"Look at me, Sam," Dean growled, grabbing Sam's attention and making him look at him. The redness in his eyes had lessened. 

"Dean. . ." It was nearly a whimper, his eyes threatening to avert to his naked lap when a noise Dean made in the back of his throat reminded him to keep his eyes on the older man holding him. "You don't wanna hear about it. You took me here to fuck, yeah?" Sam wiggled out of Dean's grasp, only to straddle his lap, now looking down at Dean. "Then let's fuck," 

Dean looked up at the younger man incredulously. His face was still blotchy, but beautiful nonetheless. His eyes were filled with something - Dean quickly named it as something like determination. Of what, Dean couldn't place. Maybe wanting to forget. He looked like he needed to forget for awhile. 

"No," 

Winchester surprised himself by saying it so bluntly. For saying it at _all_. Actually _refusing_ **Sam**. It felt wrong to do so. The other man looked equally baffled, his lips parting slightly and eyes widening a fraction - stunned. Then they dropped, his eyes flashing with hurt. ". . . What?" 

"No," Dean repeated, coming out with more authority than the last, emerald eyes staring hard and unforgiving into Sam's eyes. "I said no, we're not gonna fuck," 

"Then why--" 

"Why did I want you to ride home with me?" 

"Yeah," Sam nodded, looking affronted. "Nobody goes through all this trouble just to _talk_ ," 

"I do," Dean all but bit out, shifting under Sam to bring their faces closer together. "I--" 

"Do you not wanna fuck me?" Sam's brow furrowed. 

"Of course I want to," Dean groaned, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous question. Truth be told, he'd never wanted anything more. It was taking all he had not to yank down his pants, grab Sam's hips, and slam him down on his cock. "You have no idea-" 

"Then why aren't you?" Sam countered, his fox slanted eyes slits as he looked skeptically at Dean. 

There was a flare of frustration that shot up through Dean's veins. "You're upset right now, baby boy. I don't wanna take advantage," 

Which was true. As much as he'd like to dive in between Sam's legs, now that he'd seen the turmoil in his eyes, he didn't want to take advantage of that just yet. But not for any lovey-dovey reason, of course. Sam would end up regretting it later and then, in turn, resent him, Dean. Sam wouldn't want anything to do with him. Dean recalled how he got Sam here in the first place - jerking him off in the bathroom and manipulating that post-orgasm haze that Sam was in. Seducing him. Taking advantage. . . Dean's never been so contradictory of his actions before. Doing something and then refusing to do so later - when Sam was actually _asking_ for it. What the hell was this man doing to him?

Sam looked at him with frustration, slowly morphing into determination. It almost looked, to Dean, as if he were upset - and in the angry sense of the term. Irritated. And much to Dean's surprise and misfortune, Sam ground his bare hips down onto Dean's, whose twitched in return, and the older of the two sucked in a gulp of breath. He cursed under his breath as he felt his pants begin to tighten, and again when he saw Sam's weeping erection pressed against him, in between the small space between them. Fuck, Sam had a beautiful cock. And it being hard and a sexy shade of pink only made that statement all the more true. It was hard to concentrate on _not_ fucking Sam whenever not only was he straddling his growing hardon, but also completely naked - not a thread of fabric on him.

"S-stop," Dean barely gritted out, grabbing Sam's hips with a bruising grasp, trying to keep him from grinding back down again without pushing him off. Hands gripped Dean's shoulders, stern and sure, forcing him back into the headboard. Sam was sure strong, but it wasn't anything Dean couldn't have prevented if he'd wanted to. "Sam. . ." 

With one powerful jut of Sam's hips, he was grounding himself down onto Dean again. The hands at Dean's shoulders disappeared and started to work his jeans open. Hasty in what seemed to be desperation. 

" _Stop_ ," This time it was a bark of a command, making Sam jump at the sheer unexpected aspect of it. Not to mention still at the ferocity in his tone. It was clear to Dean that Sam just wanted to forget. Wanted to be fucked into oblivion, pierced on a cock, come so hard he forgets his name. Dean had a feeling that Sam would up and leave here if he didn't get what he was asking for from him and then go out and get it from someone else. A spark of rage flared up inside of Dean at the thought of someone else pounding into Sam. 

"Dean," Sam breathed tentatively, shifting as Dean moved underneath him. 

Quickly, giving Sam as little reaction time as possible, Dean moved his legs so that Sam was straddling only one of them, his left one, and pressed it up snug in between Sam's legs, against the heated length that was there. Sam looked confused, but Dean's expression remained steely. If Sam was gonna get off, he was going to do it Dean's way. Dean blames that on his psychopathic tendencies towards having control over any and all things. 

"If you wanna get off so bad-" Dean began, a daring twist at the corners of his lips. "-then show me. Ride my leg," 

"Ride your--" Sam scoffed, just looking at him incredulously. In response, Dean pressed his leg up into Sam's dick again, adjusting himself so that he gave Sam's balls a bit of pressure as well. Despite the gasp of _what was that_? Pleasure? That came from Sam's lips, the fox slanted eyes narrowed. "I'm not a fucking dog, Dean," 

" _Ride_ , Sammy. Not hump. _Ride_ ," Dean corrected with a cocky grin. He pressed his leg up into Sam again, making Sam shudder. 

There was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to be inside of Sam, but like he made clear in his mind before; he didn't want Sam resenting him. Didn't want Sam to look at him and have his stomach churn. Dean wanted Sam to want him just as much as he wanted Sam. Wanted to leave Sam guessing. Wanted to have Sam hooked and wanting more. 

He wanted Sam to always find his way back to him. 

Dean wrapped a hand around Sam's dick and gave it long, agonizingly _slow_ strokes. Sam's hands went back to Dean's arms, this time clutching his biceps as his body reacted beautifully to the attention Dean was giving his hard cock - so hard, in fact, it was growing uncomfortably painful. That was obvious to Dean, as Sam's face twisted with pleasure and the failed attempt at hiding his desperation. Precome leaked from the slit of Sam's cock and Dean swiped his thumb over the head, catching and smearing it. Giving Sam's cock one last, good stroke (earning a whine of protest from the other), he raised his thumb to his lips, then sucked precome-covered digit into his mouth, pulling it out with an obscene _pop_. Sam watched with those eyes of his that can turn from sinful fox to puppy dog in a second flat. Dean smirked at Sam's look - a silent _beg_ \- and he arched his leg up into Sam's dick again, tantalizingly increasing and then easing the pressure, repeating it a few times and watching Sam fight the urge to grind into it. 

Sam moaned softly as Dean's leg pressed up into his groin, his jeans creating delicious friction against the underside of his cock and his arching balls. Dean's jeans were old and worn, so they were soft and added just the right amount of friction to get him interested - okay, more like an eager, begging mess, but that's besides the point - but not enough to really get Sam there. 

Then Dean stopped moving his leg altogether, and there was this cocky smirk plastered on his face. Sam wanted to smack it off. Kiss it off. Whichever came first. 

"Fuck. You," Sam growled and reluctantly ground his groin against Dean, nearly keening at the much needed friction, but instead settled for letting his head lull back and his eyes roll back and close, a small whimper that he would have otherwise blushed for making escaping his swollen lips. 

"That's your goal, isn't it, Sammy?" Dean grinned. 

The sight was something to revel in; Sam letting his head fall back, his lips parted just enough to get a glimpse of those beautiful white teeth, the pink tongue that flicked out to swipe over his swollen lips. Hands remaining at his sides, clutching the comforter beneath him, he refrained from the urge to grab Sam's hips and guide him down on his leg again and again. What he really wanted to do was slam Sam down on his cock and fuck him seven ways to Sunday, but he reminded himself he needed Sam coming back for more. He wasn't going to give it all up to Sam. Not just yet. And he was giving Sam control, a little bit, and something that he could quickly remedy, but he liked to see Sam with the illusion that he was in control. That he could chase his orgasm for as long as he so pleased. 

Dean's own dick was throbbing in his pants, pressing painfully against the zipper. It was awfully erotic, watching Sam rub himself against his leg. Feeling the heat and the warmth of precome beginning to soak into his jeans. The way Sam was moving his hips was almost hypnotizing. He could watch Sam do this all day - feel it, too. It drove him to put a hand on his denim-clad bulge and palm himself through the fabric, watching. And feeling. Hearing the sinful moans that left Sam's kissable, _fuckable_ lips. The whines and whimpers for more, and the groans of unadulterated desire. 

"There you go, baby boy," Dean groaned throatily, looking up from Sam's dick and meeting Sam's gaze. His andalusite eyes were clouded with lust and want and just pure _need_. "That's it. Doin' so good for me," 

" _Dean_ ," Sam gasped in a moan as Dean raised his leg to meet his grinding hips. He bent his top half over and buried his flushed face into Dean's neck, his moans and whimpers coming out as a strung of muffled whines against Dean's flesh. He wanted more. He _needed_ more. Reaching in between his legs, Sam went to wrap a hand around himself and work himself until he came, to follow - to _chase_ \- his nearing orgasm. "S-o fucking _close_ , Dean," 

Dean didn't need to hear that to know that Sam was close. The rhythm of other's hips had started to increase, and then started to become almost _frantic_ ; grinding down against Dean's leg as Dean worked his leg against Sam, rewarding him. Giving his good boy some more friction. Pressure. Then he stopped rewarding him whenever he saw Sam going for his dick and he immediately growled, "Only my leg, sweetheart," And pushed Sam's hands away, restraining them until Sam stopped trying to reach for himself. Fuck, Dean's head was _pounding_ with how much Sam getting himself off on his leg turned him on; almost like a whirlwind of desire. He pressed the heel of his hand into his crotch. He wanted to pull himself out of his jeans and start stripping his own dick, but he didn't - he didn't put it passed Sam that he'd hop on his cock the first chance he got, and Dean doesn't think he'd stop him. 

The harder and longer Dean palmed himself, and the louder Sam moaned against his neck, the closer he got. Fuck, he was so fucking close. He could practically taste it. The warm feeling coiling in his groin, how his mind got cloudy and he couldn't think. Pfft, couldn't even keep his eyes open for that matter. All he knew was Sam, Sam, _Sam_. Gotta get Sammy there. 

And then it happened; Sam came. Hard and fast, throwing his head back and screaming Dean's name. And fuck, if that wasn't hot, then Dean didn't know what was. Sam was fucking gorgeous when he came; his hair matted to his forehead as sweat clung to his sun kissed skin, the unique way his lip curled in the good way, the kind that Dean wanted to see all the time, showing off his perfect teeth, the way his eyes squeeze shut and his body trembled with each wave of his orgasm, the way his back would arch and he'd gasp in pleasure. Sam's face contorting with release. Dean could feel the hot, pearly ropes of come shooting over his jeans, his shirt, and what did him in was when he actually looked down and _saw_ how Sam had painted him white. His come all over Dean's clothes. 

Dean came with a shout, his head thudding back against the headboard and his own back arching as he shot his load ( _once again_ ) in his pants. His hands flew to Sam's hips as his orgasm shook him, using Sam to ground himself to reality, feeling as if he didn't hold onto Sam, he'd end up - fuck, he didn't know where. He just knew he had to hold onto something. And Sam's sharp but ample hips where more than enough to keep him there. 

"Holy fuck," Sam panted and collapsed into Dean, who in turn - after coming down from his post-orgasm high - wrapped his arms around the other's naked, sweat coated form. 

Dean chuckled some breathlessly. No thrusting, not pumping, no anything and his orgasm was so intense he felt like he just ejaculated his fucking soul out. "Holy fuck, indeed," He mused with a languid smile, feeling Sam nuzzle his face deeper into his neck, Sam's arms wrapping around him now. 

Making Sam ride his leg wasn't something he'd planned. Dean actually planned to rock Sam's work with his cock. Maybe use some of that serial killer fetish stuff to his advantage and get out some of his favorite toys and dip into knifeplay, something that no woman has ever done for him willingly - only his victims. Bloodplay maybe, if it didn't scare Sam off. Dean wasn't stupid, though, with the last one. He would have probably refrained from that out of caution; he wouldn't want to get too carried away with it, and just something about blood made him excited. No, he didn't do anything he thought he'd do, and _trust him_ , he thought about this long and hard. All but dreamed about it - the different ways he'd fuck Sam. Yet here he was, both Sam and him panting messes without having ever been inside of one another. Well, besides Sam's dick being inside of Dean's mouth, but that's not what he's talking about. 

Dean's arms tightened around Sam, feeling the younger relax in his embrace, his body fall into Dean's completely. 

"Thanks," 

It was just a tickle on his neck, but Dean still heard it. He furrowed his brow. "For what?" 

"Just-. . ." Dean felt Sam shrug, his shoulders pressing into him. He smiled a little at the gesture, but held Sam closer anyway, even as he shifted so he was once again straddling his lap, bringing them closer together. Though Dean wasn't much for pillow talk, post-sex anything other than sleeping, he didn't mind this. Nor the come now adorning his clothes, both inside and out. Not the way Sam's body was sticky with sweat. Not even a little. 

Fatigue started to make itself known throughout Dean's body - the day's endeavors beginning to wear on him. He'd had quite the productive day, if he had anything to say about it. A productive night, it seems, as well. It wasn't long after he felt Sam's breaths on his neck, the rise and fall of his chest, even out and the little snores that reminded him of in the car when he was comparing Sam to a sleeping puppy that Dean felt himself start to succumb to the inevitable night's slumber, a lazy smile plastered on his face that softened as he fell into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is why you shouldn't let me do things at two o'clock in the morning.


	4. So Much For That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sleepovers continue, but as does Sam's affair with his boss. This time it doesn't sit so well with Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, you beautiful son of a bitch, you! I'm finally getting this chapter out to you guys! Busy with various things, so I had to work on this whenever I could. As you can tell, I suck with summaries. Sue me.

This continued to happen; Sam coming to Dean's motel room after work. It didn't happen everyday, as Jessica would have known something was up if Sam needed to crash somewhere other than their apartment every night. Dean didn't mind it, though, because he knew exactly where Sam wanted to be; and he wasn't as modest as to say he didn't want to be with him. Dean knew why, too. He didn't ask anything from Sam other than his company, everything else was on Sam. Whether or not they came, if they just talked (or, rather, Sam talked and Dean just listened), or if they slept next to each other or spooned. Usually Dean would end up being the big spoon despite their size differences, but on occasion he was the little spoon. The one time he was the little spoon he didn't much care for; he lost the element of control that he'd been carefully maintaining. But because Sam was, well, _Sam_ , he allowed it. Truth be told, though he'd never in a million years admit it, he actually liked having Sam's arms around him - liked letting go for a little bit, if only for a few hours. 

It's happened about four times since then over a period of two weeks. Dean would come into the bar each day, save for a couple when he had other things to do. He's done quite a bit since their first slumber party. For one, he found out more about this 'Jessica Moore' girl Sam's living with. Going to school for business. Daughter of moderately successful parents. Her record's completely clean other than a speeding ticket she got when she was eighteen. A golden child compared to Dean, which isn't hard to accomplish in the first place. 

He also learned that she was a natural blond and her perky tits were real. . . Maybe he did a little more research than necessary, but he wanted to know what he was up against. Yes, Dean knew he had good looks, a great body - he worked to maintain it, but there were obviously things that he didn't have that Jessica did, but it worked both ways because Jessica didn't have some of the things he did. So it was a hit or miss. 

Dean also learned a new word; bisexual. Meaning that you liked both genders. Whenever Sam walked into his life, became his new point of focus, Dean didn't automatically stop liking frisky women. He just realized that men weren't too shabby, either. Though he wasn't really interested in any dick that wasn't Sam's. Thinking about it, though, Dean could see why; Sam was all man with a feminine touch, just the right amount for Dean to see and appreciate. Both in his personality and in his appearance as far as his face went. Long lashes, andalusite eyes that express each and every one of his emotions, the delicate curve of his cheekbones, his narrow jawline. Then pure man in the rippling muscles, the slightly lanky way his body just _was_ \- still seeming as if he were still growing into it at twenty two years of age. 

The older of the two also saw how passionate Sam was. And he was so damn empathetic he took everything to heart. Even things that didn't necessarily have anything to do with him could determine how he'd be feeling for a good while afterward - for instance, Sam was upset for the rest of the night after he watched the news just as they were describing a rather nasty shooting at a mall not too far from that very bar. Where Dean felt nothing, Sam felt everything.

They hadn't had sex yet. At least, nothing other than sucking and rutting and fingering. Sam'd ask for it, Dean would deny it. Like he'd made clear before time and time again; it's not that he didn't _want_ to be inside of Sam, it was more like he wanted him to really be his first. That once they did, Sam wouldn't grow bored of him, would keep coming back for more. He didn't have to break up with Jessica - that's not what he's asking for (though it'd be nice) - he just wanted to be _sure_ , and right now, he wasn't. And Dean and uncertainty don't mix well when making decisions. He had to learn that the hard way. 

Even though the sex-not-so-much-sex was great, watching Sam throw his head back and his eyes squeeze shut as he came, the earth shattering orgasm Dean would inevitably experience directly after, Dean's favorite (maybe a close second - he was indecisive when it came to most things about Sam) part of their nights together was when Sam would talk to him. The kid was interesting, _fascinating_. For someone who felt little other than the occasional rage spell and, more recently, infatuation, it was mind boggling to listen to someone who felt so passionately about something. That something for Sam was helping the innocent. Despite Dean's dangerous occupation, how he drifted in between the lines of his many fates; going out in a blaze of glory, getting thrown in prison up until he was met with the electric chair or lethal injection, or living out the rest of his life as normally as an escaped serial killer can - Dean was quite intrigued by Sam's point of view on things. It was like learning about a foreign culture you'd been living in all your life and never had it explained to you, just out of your grasp of understanding, but there all the same.

"I just -" Sam frowned a little, not knowing that his face had pouted in that puppy dog like way that Dean found himself growing fond of. "Even if I was some great lawyer one day, fighting evil and all of that, there's still going to be bad guys roaming the streets, picking on the innocents. Even if they do go to jail, they're given three free meals everyday, a place to bathe and sleep, and a lot of people deserve worse than that. It's -" He paused, searching for the right word. "It's just frustrating. Not being able to do anything more, y'know?"

Dean propped himself up on his elbow. They were in bed, Sam on his back and Dean propped up on his side. This was the fifth night they'd done this. Except this time all it's been is talk. They both had their pants on, but by this time they had both shed their coats, button downs, and undershirts. Sam was half beneath the covers and half not - he had to cover his feet; bad circulation. Dean had been lying out on top of the sheets, but when Sam complained about the temperature, he slipped under them and hooked his legs around Sam's. If he'd a thought of it sooner, he would have done it. Any excuse to get closer to Sam. 

Nodding thoughtfully at Sam's splurge of justice, Dean licked his lips as he thought. An idea popped into his mind, one that made him smirk. 

"What do you want to specialize in?" Dean questioned. 

Sam looked at him, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. "Huh?" 

"Like," Dean licked his lips again, finding them slightly chapped. "-I don't know what the specifics are or anything, since I didn't go to college 'nd all, but aren't there things that you fight for more than others when someone becomes a lawyer? Like, some of them specialize in assault cases, some divorce, things like that," He paused. "What do you want to be?" 

"I, uh," Sam seemed to be considering it. "Criminal Law, basically," 

"As a broad spectrum?" 

"Yeah," Sam nodded. 

"So, like," Dean fought off a grin. "Thieves, pedos, rapists, and serial killers, right?" 

Sam nodded for every single one except the last. He paused. Then nodded again, and Dean could have sworn that even in the dim lighting (the moonlight and passersby cars were the only sources of light) that Sam's Adam's apple bobbed, indicating a gulp. Maybe it was just a coincidental swallow, but the way Sam's eyes seemed to light up - get that alluring darkness in them at the same time - Dean doubted it. 

Dean had theories on the darkness that seemed to be residing in Sam. Whirling around inside of him, but never truly breaking the surface. He'd seen darkness in other people - rage, turmoil, greed - but never like what he saw in Sam. He'd only seen that once, and that was whenever he looked in the mirror. Whenever he did catch a glimpse of it, it was only a glint. Barely even a glimpse, at that. Somehow, Sam managed to stuff it down deep inside of him, behind the innocent andalusite eyes flicking up at him - looking at him like he wouldn't hurt a fly. 

"Yeah," Finally came Sam's verbal reply. 

_Don't be too obvious_. Dean was good at that. Deception. Most of the time, anyway. With how Sam made act and think he felt, this might be a totally different story. Careful baby steps. "Awesome," Dean flashed Sam a grin. He averted his gaze before he spoke again, just to add to the effect. "Y'know. . . this might sound kinda weird, but -" Dean stopped and chuckled, shaking his head. Acting. He acted all the time, so this wasn't any different. "Never mind," 

"No," Sam frowned slightly, emerald eyes drawn back to him. He sat up a bit, propping himself up on his elbows, looking expectantly at Dean. "Tell me," 

"Nah, I just-" 

"Damnit, Dean. Just freakin' tell me," 

Dean smirked a bit, unable to hide it any longer, though he played it off and let his lips spread into a sheepish smile. "Just uhm- serial killers," 

There was a pause. Sam looked as though he was trying to figure out what direction this was headed. ". . . Yeah?" 

"I've, uh, you're probably going to think I'm crazy-" _I'm actually just a psychopath on the scale of crazy, no worries there_. "-but I've always found them interesting," 

Another pause. 

He watched Sam's face change and shift. Due to the shitty lighting, Dean couldn't put his finger on most of them, even when all of his focus was on Sam and the creases his facial expressions made on him. Then he smiled a bit. "Really?" 

"Yeah. . ." Dean trailed off, arching a brow. "You don't think that's strange?" 

Sam shook his head. "I mean - if it is, then I'm pretty strange, too. Find them kinda. . . _intriguing_ ," 

Now Dean was getting somewhere. This conversation actually ended up lasting for a couple hours (or maybe longer than that, Dean wasn't exactly sure), and Dean was glad that Sam had gotten off earlier from his shift at the bar so that they could do this without Sam being dead tired in the morning. He learned quite a bit; turns out this kid is a walking encyclopedia of weirdness. And this weirdness just happened to be every serial killer that Dean had ever heard of and more. It's not that Dean did any reading. He's read things like Helter Skelter and one of the Dexter books, but otherwise, he didn't know much other than what he saw on the television growing up and what he saw by chance now. Yes, killing was an art, but obviously there wasn't some kind of convention for murderers. People who took _joy_ \- even _release_ in each life they ended. Therefore, serial killers didn't normally keep tabs on one another. It wasn't like there was some sort of community there. He means - as far as Dean knows there isn't. He's never been one for socializing. Besides, he prefers to do his own thing and doesn't really give a fuck about what the others do or how they do it - everyone's got different ways of getting their rocks off. 

Turns out that Sam was just as passionate about this type of thing as he is about justice, about becoming a lawyer. It was fun to see Sam's face change as he talked, which he ended up doing a lot of when they were together (though Dean would never complain - he loved hearing Sam talk). Which only made it all the more unnerving as to why Sam didn't recognize him from the news or elsewhere. In the few nights they've spent together, they've exchanged their last names as well. Dean, of course, already knew Sam's, but pretended like he didn't. Even acting as if he were trying it out for the first time by purring it a few times. Dean wasn't stupid, though. He knew he shouldn't push his luck. Therefore, he gave Sam a fake last name, so now he thinks that his name is Dean _Smith_. Bland choice for a last name, but it works. Easy to remember, at least. 

Dean felt their conversation coming to a close whenever Sam trailed off on talking about Ted Bundy (one that Dean only had information on by chance due to how more recent his killings were), and the older of the two watched as the youngest's face dropped ever so slightly, like he was reminiscing a favorite old pastime. 

"Why the long face?" Dean inquired gently from the side, pouting a little to pull of a sympathetic look. 

Sam shrugged. "No reason," 

" _C'mon_ , you can tell me," Dean urged with a tender kiss to Sam's bare chest. A shudder ran visibly through Sam and Dean grinned. 

Sam opened his mouth to speak, closed it as he decided against it, and repeated this a couple times until finally he furrowed his brow and laid back into the bed, but his eyes drifted over to Dean's. "Mm," He shrugged again. "It weirds Jess out- er, Jess is the, uh, girlfriend-" He elaborated quickly, but Dean already knew that. Both from research and Sam tell him himself on the second night. Sam must have been too tired to remember. Dean on the other hand _had_ to remember. He couldn't go around slipping up all of the time very well, could he? 

"Mhm," Dean nodded, encouraging more. 

"Well, yeah. She just doesn't like it. Says she's not comfortable with the ' _fetish_ '," Sam scrunched his fingers to make quotation marks, then dropped his hands back on his chest and one on his stomach. Dean deducted that perhaps Jess had swayed him away from keeping tabs on the whole serial killer thing, furthermore saving Dean from being recognized right off the bat. He only got caught a little over a year or so ago, so even if Sam had known about him, his killings, he didn't stay tuned long enough for the police to finally put a name and face to the illusive psychopath that is Dean Winchester. And maybe he'd been too busy with school and work to take a moment and look at the news? "I mean -" Sam suddenly said, jolting up a bit and looking at Dean. "It's- it's _not_ one. Just a fascination," 

The older of the two found the way Sam was trying to defend himself was cute - fuck that - _adorable_. And not to mention leaning on the comical side. _Sure it's not a fetish, Sammy_ , Dean thought with a smirk. _Sure_. "We all have our kinks, baby boy," Dean purred with an arched eyebrow, eyes wandering Sam's flushed face. It was obvious by the way he was fidgeting, and by the way he finally just sat up, that he was flustered. There was that pouty, puppy dog look to his face again. The one that could fool even the best of 'em. Though this was genuine, Dean could see him using it to his advantage if he ever got passed all of that moral bullshit that holds everyone back. 

"It's _not_ a kink," Sam defended. 

"Oh baby boy," Dean chuckled, sitting up with him and putting a hand on his back, running the tips of his fingers up his spinal column and earning a shiver from the other. "I think it is," 

There wasn't a reply that time. Only radio silence on Sam's part other than a shaky breath here and a shaky breath there.

Dean leaned over, tilting his head some to press a kiss on Sam's naked bicep, then up to the curve of his shoulder, all slow and sensual like. His left arm came up and ran up Sam's side, the pads of his fingers following the dips and curves of his muscles and the bones there that were his ribs - he could feel them a little better than he'd like to, but it was Sam, so he liked them a the same. 

A shiver ran through Sam's gorgeous body, the older of the two grinned at the reaction he drew our of Sam. He would never get over how _responsive_ Sam was to him. That alone was enough to start to heat his own body, his cheeks flushing almost like Sam's. 

"Like that?" Dean breathed hotly against Sam's ear.

Sam answered in a soft moan, Dean responding by grazing his teeth over the curve of the other's neck. He could have sworn that Sam leaned into his touched, that he tilted his head for Dean's better access to his neck. God, every inch of this man was sexy - no matter how lanky some parts of him were. Dean thought that that just added to the pure sex that Sam was. Wrapping his arms around Sam's middle, he pulled the man closer into him, allowing him to kiss around to the front of Sam's neck from the behind-but-slightly-beside position he was to Sam. His hands splayed against the taut, tanned skin of Sam's abdomen, the muscles over his chest. Dean couldn't get enough of touching him. It was moments like this that was so difficult in trying to control himself. He didn't even know why he tried anymore. 

Then Dean's hand slipped lower and there was a shaky exhale from Sam's lips. A grin spread across Dean's own, and he pushed his hand down the muscles of his abdomen, following his V with the pads of his fingers until he reached Sam's crotch. Much to Dean's pleasure, Sam was already hard. Or, well, he was getting there, at least. Another thing that Dean couldn't get enough of (and he'd never thought he'd say this); Sam's cock. It was fucking fantastic like the rest of him. Fit in Dean's hand and mouth like it was made for just that. The way Sam's back fit with Dean's chest each and every time he'd lean back into it. 

" _Fuck_ ," Sam whispered as Dean gave his cock a light squeeze, his length jerking with excitement at the attention. 

That only encouraged Dean to step further and start palming Sam through the thin, soft fabric of his grey lounge pants. It never failed to amuse Dean that Sam didn't think it necessary to wear boxers of any kind around him anymore. They were almost always coming off whenever they were together, therefore they were always just in the way. Something that was unnecessary if they were given the chance to be alone together. Though they hadn't fucked yet, they've both gotten naked and rutted like some kind of bitches in heat. Whenever Sam was on top, his hips were frantic with need. Whenever Dean was on top, his hips moved in controlled and hard motions. Even then Sam was still bucking up into Dean, mewling and begging. From afar, you'd never guess that Sam was a bottom in bed. Of course, he had the very real option of being a top, but he loved being dominated. At least, that's how it came off to Dean. 

"W-why ar-e you always--" Sam gushed out, cutting himself off mid sentence, arching his hips up into Dean's hand, all but begging for more. 

Dean furrowed his brow, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he pressed the heel of his hand into Sam's cock, earning a sigh of approval. "Why am I always what?" 

"Why are you always taking care of me-e?" Sam mustered, his own hands on Dean's arms. 

Dean was perplexed by this question for the longest of moments, his hand still giving Sam the attention he needed with his hand. What did he mean by Dean always taking care of him? How could he **_not_**? If taking care of him was meant through sexual pleasure, that is. Sam was everything he'd ever wanted _ever_ without Dean knowing he even wanted it in the first place.

"Because I want to," Dean replied with utmost sincerity. Dean _did_ want to take care of Sam. He wanted to hold him and kiss him and cuddle him and wanted to fuck him into next week all at once. The feelings - what Dean _thought_ were feelings - were so overwhelming. Just one thing after another. And he felt something towards Sam, whether it be real or a delusion his psychopathic mind made up, something that just made him want to worship Sam. His pleasure aside, it'd please _him_ to know that he was making Sam feel good. Not Gabriel. Not Jessica. Or anyone else that Sam might be screwing.

Grazing Sam's skin with his lips, baring his teeth and scraping them gently along the younger man's sensitive flesh, Dean let his fingers dig into Sam's sides, running over the ribs protruding from his sides - slight but still noticeable under Dean's dexterous fingertips - and then down to his sharp hipbones.

"But I'm -" Due to how close Dean was, he heard Sam swallow. " - I'm not-. . . What did I ever give you-" 

"Shh," Dean hummed lowly against the junction of Sam's neck and shoulder. Sam was giving him something right now; himself. Something that Dean's wanted more than anything in his life. It wasn't much to compete with, but when you can't really want something, that means a lot. It was something profound - something that Dean couldn't put into words even if he tried. The only other feeling close to this _desire_ was the need to kill. Urges that would spring up on him and drive him do to things that could get him tossed right back into prison if he wasn't careful. "You give me more than enough by just being here," 

It was the truth. He'd had urges, but every single one of them was dulled as soon as he thought about Sam. The lean, yet slightly lanky body. The shaggy mop of hair. The silky smooth skin and hands that lacked the callouses that Dean's had seemingly always bore. A blank canvas of a body that Dean wanted to paint, to leave his mark. 

"But-" 

Dean hushed him by nipping at the curve of his neck with a gentle, "Shut the fuck up,".

Then Sam did something unexpected and twisted in Dean's grasp, disrupting the steady flowing of Dean's hands. It stunned Dean for a moment, stilling him as Sam was then facing him, knees tucked underneath him. Dean raised an eyebrow in question. Next, Sam's hands were at Dean's chest, pushing him back. "Relax," Sam half-smiled. For a moment, Dean just stared at him, earning himself gentle, but firm pressure to his chest where Sam's hand lie.

And there it was. It was just a flash, a mere glimpse, a peek. The darkness that resided so deep inside of Sam, swimming under the surface, and so close that Dean could all but taste it in the air as if it were a tangible presence. Dean's dick twitched in interest in his pants and he felt it slowly start to swell just from the prospect of Sam. The darkness wasn't. . . _evil_. It wasn't a malicious entity lying in wait. It was like something that had always been there. Been suppressed. Or maybe it hadn't had the urge to make itself known. Whatever the case may be, it got Dean excited. It was all but enticing, seeing it swarm just below the surface; so close, but far enough away that it kept Dean on his toes - kept him guessing.

Finally, after a moment of shoving the need to be in control back down deep into the depths in which it originated, Dean laid back succumbing to the pressure on his chest and submitting.

"There you go," Sam whispered the praise and it made something squirm to life inside of Dean. Like something that had long ago died and was slowly having life breathed back into it. A twitch here and there. Dean swallowed, fists clenching as he white knuckled the sheets underneath him. Then there was tugging at his hips, sharp but subtle, and his pants were being slid down his legs. They hit his ankles, then were guided the rest of the way off and discarded to the floor. "Nervous?" The words were dulcet; so sweet and honey-like rolling off of Sam's tongue that it nearly had Dean's teeth rotting.

A faint chuckle rumbled around in Dean's chest, lifting his head some so he could look down his own near-nude form and into the andalusite pools that had seemed to take on a dark golden honey tint to match his silky voice. There was a smirk that adorned his lips, and from literal _years_ of practice, he could really pull off. "I think we're a little past the whole 'nervous' stage, don't ya think?" Dean inquired, arching an eyebrow. 

Dean's entire body shook whenever Sam's head drifted down to his boxer-brief clad crotch, the younger man's lips turned up in his own kind of smirk. Sam's lips brushed against the ever growing bulge in between Dean's legs, and Sam doing so only making it worse. Even through the fabric of his boxers, Dean could still feel the heat radiating from Sam's mouth, his hips instinctively arching up into the warmth. His lips parted to press against the clothed head of his erection and huffed hot air onto it, making Dean groan. Seeing Sam in between his legs like that, his body so eager, but his eyes held all the patience in the world. Fuck, the man was gorgeous. Even more so now that he was half naked (though Dean would have preferred full on nudity - go big or go home) and mouthing Dean's cock through the fabric of his boxers, making their front wet with his saliva and, now, Dean's precome. 

Sure, he's been given a blowjob before, which is where Dean believes this is headed. Many, actually. But none of them made him feel like this. Like handing over the reigns and hoping for the best. Letting go didn't come easy to Dean - it never had. Which was way he couldn't seem to relax right now. Before, with the girls he'd been with, it was normally Dean face fucking them. There was nothing intimate or sensual about it. Just Dean, their mouth, and his cock and his hips pumping in and out of them hard enough for them to be complaining about how sore their jaws were afterwards. Now was different, though. Now was _Sam_. 

"Shh," Sam cooed, humming against Dean's cock, all in attempts to _'comfort'_ Dean, probably, which was the complete opposite of what it was doing. Fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxer briefs and soon were slid down his legs and thrown into a pool in the floor along with his other clothes. Okay, he didn't like this either. Being completely exposed while Sam still, at least, had his pants on. "I've got you," Sam's voice remains silky smooth, just like his hands running up and down Dean's bare thighs and hips. A stubborn frown marred his lips. If he were like most people, he might have been blushing or maybe even giggling, who the fuck knows, but right now he was just. . . Well, he couldn't exactly describe what he was feeling, _if_ he was really feeling and this wasn't some delusion, a _ruse_ his brain decided to whip up. He's never been good with dealing with emotions; he's never had to. He had to keep reminding himself that what he was feeling - what he _thought_ he was feeling - wasn't real. 

Looking down his form again (now completely naked, may he add), he looked into Sam's eyes again. Sam was looking right back at him. It was amazing. Sam could go from puppy dog to minx in a second flat. One of Sam's large hands came back up his thigh, gliding along the skin there, and then wrapped around the engorged flesh weighing Dean's hips down into the mattress, earning a low groan of approval from Dean. The way Sam's fingers were calloused, not a lot, but just enough in all of the right places to get one hell of a sensation out of it. They weren't feminine even in the slightest. Absolutely all man. Fuck, Dean was getting _hot_. 

Sam worked Dean's cock nice and slow, controlled movements guiding his hand up and down the hard length. He did this until he got another bead of precome spilling from the slit, and that's when he stilled his hand a little, wrapping it around the base, and lowered his head. Sam's wide, puppy eyes stared up at Dean as he parted his lips and allowed for his tongue to come through, flattening and then dragging across the tip, the bead of precome going along with it. He lapped at the tip and he had Dean all but writhing beneath him. Hot was an understatement; watching Sam lick his cock was orgasmic all on its own. Then Sam was taking Dean's cock in his mouth, just the head, and he swirled his tongue around it, drawing back just enough to dip the tip of his tongue into the slit again, and then sucking the head back in his mouth. 

"Fuck, _Sam_!" Dean gasped, clutching the sheets tighter, so tight he thought he might tear them. Fuck it. Sam's warm, _wet_ mouth was wrapped around him. He couldn't think of anything else even if he tried. Just _Sam_ , _Sam_ , _Sam_. "God, baby boy, that fe-els- that feels so fuckin' good," He groaned, arching his hips up, wanting more. "Please-" 

Before he could even finish the freaking word, Sam was humming around his dick, his mouth sinking down lower. Dean was falling apart at watching Sam swallow him like it was what he was made to do. He pulled back until he reached the head, and then sunk back down again. Sam repeated this over and over and over. Dean was cursing in pleasure and groaning praises. It was hard to keep his head up when all he wanted to do was throw it back and close his eyes, but he wanted - _needed_ to see Sam. Watch him suck on the head and the swallow it down once more. Then taking in so much of Dean that he gagged around him, bringing Dean a little more pleasure than it probably should have. He wanted Sam to make that noise again, so he pushed his hips forward, and much to Dean's pleasure, Sam gagged around him again, making a raunchy slurping noise as he sucked. 

Dean was back in control. His right hand released the sheets and went to Sam's head, lacing his calloused fingers in with Sam's contrasting silky locks. He gripped Sam's hair firmly, earning a humming moan from the man with his lips around his dick, and started to guide Sam's head up and down his cock. Dean thought that it should be illegal for anyone's mouth to feel _this_ good. But lo and behold, here Sam's was; wet heat wrapped deliciously tight around him with each suck. 

Sam stopped his rhythm for a moment, moving _against_ Dean's guidance and stilling his head. He pulled off for a moment with a wet pop, Dean's dick throbbing the loss, and Sam took Dean's hand and pulled it from his hair, pushing it into the mattress as he looked straight at Dean, fox-slanted andalusite eyes darkening. Suddenly, all of Dean's stability was broken. Sam was taking back control. "Let me take care of you,"

" _Sammy_ ," Dean managed shakily. Just like that, Sam's eyes were back to being that of a fox's, and he was swallowing Dean down, further than before. So much so that his nose met Dean's pubic hair, reminding Dean of the first time he'd sucked Sam's cock, and apparently tickled his nose as well because when Sam pulled back, he furrowed his brow and wriggled his nose. Gathering himself, Sam got back in the rhythm he had before; up, down, up with a little twist, down following that same twist, and then up, down. "Jesus Christ. . .!" Dean gritted out, finally having to throw his head back into the pillow and shut his eyes.

This went on for ages, Sam sucking on Dean and teasing his length like it was exactly what he was made to do. They weren't fucking, or even just having sex. No, this was deeper. . . More _intimate_. Dean was making love to Sam's mouth, not fucking it. Dean thought he would never be capable of _'making love'_ , but apparently he could, because there was absolutely no other way to describe the transcendence Dean felt when he finally came, sobbing Sam's name in sheer ecstasy. It was something that Dean felt was close to something like an out of body experience. Sam had licked him clean, too - his maw covered in spit and come, creating the sexiest picture for Dean to store into his mind - the only thing he could rely on for safe keeping. Somewhere in the midst of Dean letting go, of him closing his eyes and letting Sam take over, Sam had worked his own pants off and stroked himself, worked himself steadily enough to come at the same time Dean had. 

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean murmured softly, running his fingers through Sam's hair. They were now wrapped in each other's naked embrace, Sam's head laying on Dean's chest. 

There was a little whine in the back of Sam's throat. "Don't cal'me that," He slurred back sleepily. 

"Didn't seem like you had a problem with it before," Dean chuckled lightly. 

Sam grunted, a small vibration reverberating over Dean's chest. It wasn't long until Sam's breathing evened out and slowed. 

 

 

Maybe making love wasn't what they had done last night. At least, not to Sam. Because when Dean woke up, he was cold. Opening his eyes, he realized that Sam was gone. No where to be seen. Dean sat up and let his eyes wander the floor, but he didn't see the remnants of Sam's clothing anywhere, only further confirming that he had left. Was it customary for normal people to just. . . _leave_ like that? Especially after the night they had. It shouldn't be. At least, that was what Dean thought. He was actually looking forward to not waking up alone. To have Sam's head on his chest, making it possible to not only hear, but feel Sam's little snores. Dean found that it was kind of relaxing. And it seemed appropriate considering the circumstances, but perhaps not. This was probably normal, so Dean shrugged it off. Not like it was really his area of expertise, anyhow. 

After a quick shower with sucky water pressure and lukewarm water (this motel probably wasn't one of the nicest he'd ever seen, but it was far from the worst), Dean took to spending time in his room, doing research here and there. He stayed in his room more often now; he was being risky enough staying here for so long, he didn't need people to start looking. He decided he should probably, at the very least, find a new motel.

Again, Dean was in the bar. Later than usual, so Sam's shift had already started. Watching him fly up and down the bar, pause at each person and then fix up their drinks expertly. It was a sight Dean had grown fond of, in a weird sort of way. Almost every night was spent like this, aside from the rare occasion Sam didn't have a shift or Dean needed to take care of something. Dean only went out at night if he could help it, using the cover of the darkness to allow him to move from place to place more freely, though it didn't ease his paranoid nature. He wasn't scared of anything, no, but he didn't need for someone to recognize him. When he'd walk, he'd walk casually. Drew less attention to himself. 

Being in this bar, Dean had to reject advances and decline offers from women. Even a couple men. The only man Dean had eyes for, the only _person_ Dean had eyes for, was Sam. Besides, the men came off as unshakeable tops (another word he learned recently), Dean was certainly not a bottom. Nope. Not now and not ever. 

"How'd you get to class?" Dean asked over the rim of his glass. He thinks it was called a Purple Nurple. Odd, but it wasn't half bad. Made his head a little fuzzy sooner than normal, though. 

Sam had stopped in front of him. They hadn't talked since Dean had come in - the place had been so damn busy. Dean nearly punched a guy in his throat because apparently didn't know what the fuck personal space was. But now there were only a few people left in the bar. Most at the counter watching the game or over by the pool table trying to get lucky. The bar stools were knew; these were black plastic and metal and they _spun_. . . Dean totally didn't abuse that power in the midst of his boredom. 

"Got a ride," Sam answered clippedly, not expressing that he wanted to tell anymore. Sam's bangs seemed to have grown, though Dean knew that in a few hours they couldn't have grown so much that it was noticeable, but it seemed like it. They hung lower in his eyes, and the andalusite orbs were tinted a lighter shade, now looking like a milky chocolate and not the honey gold from before. 

Dean frowned, his lips teasing the rim of his glass before setting it down on the counter, circling the edge with the tip of his finger. "From who?" 

"Whom," Sam corrected. 

Dean scoffed, chuckling a bit lightly. "Mkay. From _whom_ then, college boy?"

"Don't think that concerns you," Sam said slyly raising his eyebrows. 

Dean cocked one eyebrows. "Touché," He nodded, eyes veering off to his drink. It wasn't really his place to be questioning Sam. They were not officially together. Just a couple people who fucked sometimes. Made Dean grind his teeth together a the though; Sam wasn't really _his_. Not yet, anyway. The prospect of it pissed him the fuck off - Sam sucking, getting sucked, fucking, and _getting_ fucked by who - _whom_ ever he pleases.

Dean would definitely have to do something about that. 

Relationships weren't something he'd ever thought of having, really. He never felt possessive over anything other than his practice - something that he had once been meticulous about - but with Sam. . . It was like owning something, something like a Ferrari maybe (he knows, a really douchebag car and everything, but it's expensive and fast, which gets the point across), and watching everyone but you drive around in it. You get to run your fingers over the hood, lift it up and admire what's underneath, and you even get to wash it if you get enough time, but riding it? No.

"My friend," Sam disrupted Dean's thoughts, though he didn't mind, and Dean looked up and gazed at Sam with his emerald eyes. "Ash," He elaborated, then gestured vaguely to the bar. "Used to work here. We keep in touch," There was a question that roused in Dean's mind, cocking a brow. "Completely platonic," Sam answered his unspoken inquiry. Perhaps he'd seen it in his eyes. The same eyes that couldn't seem to stop drifting from the andalusite depths of Sam's own, and to the pink arches of his upper lip, then the pout at his lower. 

"Good to know," Dean smirked, taking a sip of his drink before setting it back down and letting his finger absently finger the rim. 

"Sorry," 

He was taken aback by this statement, this apology, for a split moment before he recomposed himself with a grunt, clearing his throat. "No worries, probably wouldn't have woken up on time to take you to your class, anyway. Not after the night we had," A sly grin adorned his lips. Dean's words were lies; he _would_ have gotten up on time. He set an alarm on his phone - a couple of alarms, actually - specifically to wake him up in order to get Sam wherever he needed to go whenever he needed to be there. Dean lives on two to four hours of sleep a night, give or take (it usually being the latter of the two), so it would have been no problem for him, even with the intense night they had. Now, it probably wouldn't have been considered intense to others, but for Dean, the experience was. . . _excruciating_ , but in the best of ways. Letting go, even for the little bit he had compared to his usual guard being front and center, felt great. If Dean were to correlate that feeling with something normal people felt, the first thing that came to mind was a rollercoaster. Fucking terrifying, but you end up satisfied and shaky-legged all the same. 

Sam huffed a laugh, wiping down the counter from various liquids and alcohols. "You say that like we had a. . . sex marathon, or something," He ended, lowering his voice towards the end. 

Another grin curved Dean's lips, dipping his head cockily. "Felt better than that," 

"Oh _really_?" 

Dean nodded and purred lowly; "You have a very talented mouth on you,"

Later that night, Sam had to decline Dean's offer to come home with him, saying that he couldn't be out again so soon. Jess would start to worry, maybe get suspicious. So Dean laid off, but that didn't stop him from waiting outside of the bar in Baby (the name of his beloved Impala) to see if Sam came out, and when he did, if he was going to get a ride from Jess or this 'Ash' guy. He waited a good half hour after closing and Sam was still nowhere to be seen. Dean thrummed his fingers along the steering wheel, trying to direct his focus elsewhere so it would make the wait easier, but he soon couldn't stand it anymore and got out, shutting the Impala's door and walking up to the door. He pulled. Locked. Exactly how the girl left it. So he reached down inside of his pocket and pulled out a paper clip - he always kept one around if he could - and begun to pick the lock. It was late, therefore the darkness shielded him from any nosy passersby, and was just moments later slipping into the bar.

He ventured further inside, knowing damn well why Sam hadn't been out there. Dean could already feel it; the burning sensation in his veins, the boiling of his blood. Jesus, infatuation sucked. It clouded judgement and reason, and the worst part was that Dean was too angry to care. Not to mention the couple of Purple Nurples he drank had him on the buzzed side. 

"Just like that. _Good boy_ ," 

Gabriel's voice filled his ears and there was a white hot desire building in his chest, his stomach, his head. Dean could hear his blood pumping, a loud _thump_ , _thump_ , _thump_ in his ears, almost filtering out the low groans and high whines. The moans and keens. The names being grunted and the shaking of the desk, screeching along the floor in the office. Dean clenched his fists painfully hard, nails digging into his palms. The first time he'd seen it, it was hot. Steamy. Fuckin' smoking. But now? Instead of making him hard, it just made him angry. Now Sam was _his_ to 'drive'. Not Gabriels, or Jessica's, the other people Sam might be screwing or getting screwed by. 

The door was left ajar and Dean wonders if Sam did that on purpose this time. _Wanting_ him to watch. Why the hell would Sam want that? Especially if it was going to make him Hulk out like this. Peering in, shoulders tensed and jaw clenched, he saw exactly what he was expecting; Sam getting fucked by his boss. This time, in the brief instance that Dean let his eyes sweep over the sight, Sam was bent over the desk, opposite of what he was last, his face pressed against the desk as Gabriel drilled into him over and over. Sam's face was flushed in that beautiful way of his, his nails scratching at the surface of the desk, his swollen (no doubt from a _kiss_ ), pretty pink lips slightly parted as pleasure slurred words fell from them. They weren't the same moans as the ones that Dean was able to draw from him, these almost sounded _forced_. In any other situation, at any other time, that may have been enough to simmer the boil inside of him, but it was only shrouded by the anger raging inside of him. 

Okay, he wasn't just _angry_ , he was _livid_.

Seeing red, not the andalusite eyes that somehow turned to find him unlike the amber that were undoubtedly closed on the boss, Dean turned sharply, fighting the overwhelming urge to storm in there and tear Gabriel from his Sammy. _His_ Sammy, not Gabriel's. He can have anyone he wants besides Sam. So why did he have to pick him? Maybe Gabriel had been enraptured by Sam's siren song as well.

But none of that mattered. Not any of it. Not a damn thing. Dean's hands twitched, they itched to be holding something, anything. He needed to punch something, kick something, throw something, slit someone's throat. Preferably the man fucking his Sammy. Just. . . _something_. There was a glint in the corner of his eye from the only sources of light being the office and the moon outside, rays billowing in from the windows in lines due to the blinds, and he reached out, grabbed the bottle that had been glinting, and threw it. Threw it _hard_. Nailed the whiskey shelf head on. There was the initial loud crash, followed by less, but still loud, profound shattering and crashes. There were thuds and the glug glug of bottles emptying. There were yelps of surprise, but it was all drowned out by the time Dean had made it to his car and sped off. Whatever damage he'd done wasn't his problem; Gabe probably wouldn't want to explain to the police what exactly they were doing when Dean had shattered probably over a couple hundred dollars worth of alcohol. 

He wasn't going back to his motel room. He wasn't going anywhere, really, he was just driving. Driving like a fucking maniac. Dean _felt_ like one. Absolutely livid with a need for something. No, it was not speed. He already had that. What he needed was. . . was _fire_ , blood, _screams_ , and certainly not the good kind. At least, not the good kind to other people, but to Dean, those noises were right at home. Something he was familiar with. How long had it been since his last kill? Weeks? At _least_. The urges hadn't been so life or death since he'd met Sam, but now his urges have never been more dire. He hasn't gone this long without killing, and even then he gave in and shanked his fair share of people. 

Dean had made it this long without killing a single person since he'd seen Sam, just so police wouldn't be swarming nearby, but Dean couldn't help it. His hands twitch and thumped the steering wheel, he sat in his seat rigidly. He felt like a drug addict who didn't get their fix for awhile, withdraw punching him right in the gut. He decided then that he wouldn't go so long without killing. Not for someone that wasn't even his to call. **_Yet_** , anyway. Yet. Dean would soon have to remedy that, one way or another. 

This might sound like the beginning of a bad joke, but that night, a psychopath walked into a club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind comments! I love them! They keep me motivated to keep on writing, so I'm perfectly okay if you spam the hell out of it. I'd love to hear your theories and what you think might happen next (that was redundant, sue me again). I'd also like to hear about things that you liked about it so that I can continue to do those things in later chapters. 
> 
> More will happen in the next chapter, therefore more time skipping here and there. Already have a pretty good idea on how I'm going to start it.(: It will be coming to you shortly.


	5. Two Face's Wet Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Impulsive** _adj._ : acting or done without forethought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Wrote this over a period of a few days, so if it doesn't flow very well into one thing or another, just know that I probably did those at very separate times. 
> 
> Another few things, thank you for your patience in me getting this out there! And thank you so much for all the kind comments.(: I love getting feedback and hearing your theories and ideas. I really do read them all and appreciate them.(:
> 
>  
> 
>   
> Comments are to me as burgers are to Cas.

Dean was all but giddy, adrenaline coursing through his body, crashing like tidal waves. The energy came in giant swoops, it'd fade, but it'd reappear in an instant. Normally he wasn't so. . . like _this_ whenever he was minutes, maybe even _seconds_ from killing. From watching flames lick up the walls of this cozy little home. He could reminisce in silence up until the woman, gagged and bound, starting stirring out of her drug induced slumber. Even then, the drug would work so her movements were sluggish, she could still make them, she just couldn't really do much other than talk and keep her head up, wiggle a little. Not to mention the headache she much have. Amanda. . . Dean was pretty sure that was her name. Amanda. Maybe Miranda. Not that it mattered much, he couldn't very well keep obituaries with him anymore. Not with someone like Sam around to snoop through his things.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty!" Dean greeted with a flourish of his wrist, a grin plastered on his face. "You were out for awhile. . . Don't have a very high tolerance for drugs, huh?" 

Amanda was looking around, brow furrowed, complete confusion on her own face. Then, as her big brown almond shaped eyes fell on Dean, a look of recognition registered along her pretty features. She didn't know him from the news, no, but from a little over an hour or so ago whenever they were at the club together where he promised her a good time. . . Well, it wasn't a lie. At least, not for Dean's side of things, anyway. This was a fucking _splendid_ time where he was concerned. No doubt about it. She was all but a perfect fit for his MO. 

Muffled words were screamed into the rag tied around her head and slipped in between her lips. Dean had always found them screaming beforehand to be rather troublesome. Neighbors get suspicious and call the cops before the house is eaten up by flames. It's just overall not good business for him. 

Stepping forward, he knelt before her, a smirk pulling at his lips. His cheeks were sore from smiling so much. At this angle, he had to look up at her, into her wide eyes that conveyed every ounce of terror she was feeling.

He reached out one of his hands, splaying it over one of her bare knees. She was wearing a skirt, something so short that it barely covered her ass. And what a nice ass that was. If she hadn't been such a pretty blond, he might have had to really take her up on that offer. Thankfully, leaving that club no one saw them. He stuck to the outskirts of it, drawing as little attention to himself as possible until Miranda came over and hit him up. What a poor decision that was. 

"You were such a nice girl. . ." Dean trailed off with a soft sigh, finger playing with the hem of her denim shirt. "Guess you know now not to take strangers home, huh?"

Dean had persuaded her to take him home with her, and in doing so, slipped some slow working drug in her drink. The date-rape drug would have worked too quickly and would have turned up in an autopsy with her remains, but what he's given her started working right on time. A bonus was that unless they knew exactly what they were looking for out of the millions of drugs that there are, what was running it's course through her system was undetectable. He noticed that it was a struggle for Miranda to keep her eyes open whenever they finally got to her place finally. None of her neighbors seemed to be awake, as all of their lights were off. He made sure to keep his head low, low enough without looking suspicious. 

Truth be told, he'd never done it this way before. Not without a plan A, B , C, and D. This had faults in it. It was painfully impulsive. But he just couldn't stand it anymore. If he didn't kill now, Sam's boss would turn up dead and most likely with Sam, an up and coming lawyer, as an eye witness. His hands were twitching, his body tense. It was like if he didn't take care of his need, his _urges_ , he's explode and hurt everyone around him. 

The thrumming in Dean's head never seemed to cease and only got worse as his anticipation grew, emerald locking with a horrified chocolate brown. The cloth in her mouth, the gag, muffled her terrified words, her pleas and begs. 

Miranda's cheeks were tear stained, and they kept on coming. There was a bit of nervous sweat clinging to her forehead, getting that beautiful blond hair there, and some on her nose, some on her chest and drops streaming down in between her breasts. It was a beautiful sight. Not to mention the way her legs and body shook with unadulterated fear. Fear of _him_. Exactly how it was supposed to be. People were supposed to _fear_ him. Not leave him. Not fuck someone that's _his_. Not leave him and go get fucked by someone other than him. 

Anger boiled inside of him, something so fierce that he thought he might end up breaking her knee from how bruising his grip was growing on her and the way she yelped behind the cloth. He immediately released his drip when he realized what he was doing. Dean wasn't against torture, but he didn't like it when people didn't deserve it. At least, to his standards. The only suffering he took pleasure in before he killed someone was the fear he could practically _smell_ on them. Unless they wronged him, they experienced no pain other than what was self inflicted.

"Hm," Dean hummed in thought so he stood and averted his gaze, recomposing himself. "Sorry about that. Been under a bit of. . . stress lately,"

There was, of course, no reply. 

"Feeling things that I haven't yet felt before," Dean went on, pacing slightly in a thoughtful manner, his nails coming up to scratch the stubble on his chin. "It's. . . _strange_ ," He said the word slowly, carefully. Dean turned his gaze to the woman. "Psychopaths can't really feel anything, I know. It has to be something like. . . Infatuation, perhaps?" He tried out the word aloud. Sounded almost as odd as it felt. The girl's eyes widened and he knew what she was thinking. With a roll of his eyes, he spoke. "And no, not with you. This wasn't exactly premeditated. . . I mean, it was, but it was more of a half assed sort of thing. An impulsive decision," 

His gaze veered off again and he leaned against her dresser. A small smile played on his lips. "No. . . His name's Sam. My Sammy. . ." He breathed the last bit to more himself than Miranda. She was saying something, but Dean couldn't understand her, nor was he trying. He didn't need her input, he just needed to talk. 

The shock of that thought settled in deep; he _needed_ to talk. Dean's never needed to talk. Not about women or men, or his _'feelings'_. Not about killing people. Sure, he's had more one sided conversations with his unfortunate victims, but he never needed that talk. He could live without it. Now it felt like it might be the only thing that would ground him. That maybe talking would help. 

"Never felt anything like it before," Dean chuckled lightly, fixing a button on his shirt absently. "He's gorgeous and just pure. . . God, there aren't even words. It's like. . ." Dean thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling and then to the brown eyes of the woman. "It's like the sun had an affair with a lion and he - _Sam_ was the product," 

The way his smile would light up his entire being, his hair soft and silky and just fucking perfect. His tanned skin and muscles and the way he stood and walked. His deep yet somehow boyish voice that got Dean stirring every friggin' time he heard it.

"All heat and spice, and everything I never knew I wanted all wrapped into one person," Dean smiled fondly, emerald eyes looking around in the dim lighting of the room. But the smile fell from his lips and faded from his eyes. "But he's not mine to call," He all but growled. 

No response. 

"He has a girlfriend and let's his boss fuck him. He let me blow him the first day we met and then jerk him off, too," Dean stated bluntly with a bittersweet laugh. He could tell her all of this because she wouldn't be alive much longer to tell the tale. And judging from the look in her eyes, the realization and confirmation, she knew it, too. "He stays with me at night sometimes. We rut and fuck each others hands and mouths. His girlfriend thinks he's crashing somewhere closer by for the night - he works at a bar. Not much of a drinker himself, though. . ." Dean sighed. "He blew me for the first time yesterday night, and _fuck_ , was it great. Then he just up and leaves before I wake up - he usually doesn't pull shit like that. Thought we connected, but I guess it was all one sided. Came to his work and saw him bent over his boss' desk," 

Dean clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "He was fucking _my_ Sammy," He could barely keep himself from roaring it, coming out as a strangled growl. "What makes this terrible episode of _Fatal Attractions_ even worse is the fact that he's currently attending Stanford to become a _lawyer_. Can you _believe_ that? Wouldn't be surprised if he's getting fucked one of his professors,"

"Two Face," Dean spoke, suddenly calm as he looked to Miranda and stepped closer the shivering heap of human tied to the chair. "That's what they called me in the news," He elaborated, earning a whimper from behind the saliva soaked cloth in her mouth. "The _Two Faced Killer_. . . Two Face for short," Dean mused with a humored grin, watching the look of familiarization register in her eyes, in the slacking of her jaw and the way her shoulders slouched as the breath noticeably left her lungs. She recognized the name. 

"Yep," Dean nodded, straightening out some and flourishing his wrists, gesturing to himself in one fluid movement. "That's me, alright," 

Then she was screaming and what would have been ear piercing was reduced to muffled murmurs. An amused smirk twisted at Dean's lips. Miranda's screams and struggles (nearly tipping her chair over) stopped when she realized it was useless and faded into violent, body shaking sobs.

Dean's cock gave an interested twitch. 

So Sam hadn't taken this from him. 

Good. 

"You done?" Dean inquired after a moment of her broken sobs. She whimpered in reply, shaky, her head hanging low. Her blond hair was strewn a mess atop her head, clinging to her sweaty forehead and clinging to her tear stained cheeks, streaks of black following them which Dean believed to be her makeup. 

A silent nod indicating her submission. 

"Good girl," He praised, earning from her a defeated whimper. This was probably his favorite part; she knew she was going to die.

"Now, back onto my name," Dean leaned back against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. "My real name is Dean Winchester," He grinned. "A little over a year ago I was caught, prosecuted, and sent to a prison. Escaped a few months ago. . . Don't know why my face isn't plastered all over the news. Maybe they're trying to keep their fuck up on the DL?" Dean mused the thought for a moment before frowning and shrugging. "Whatever. But anyway, I never really liked the name. The Two Faced Killer," He tutted and shook his head. "Makes me sound like the relative everyone hates to be around. Ya know, nice to your face, talks shit behind your back?" He sighed. "I like to think I'm pretty upfront. Of course I lie, though. I kill people. Kind of comes with the territory," Dean shrugged. "But when I get down to the nitty gritty, I'll tell you how it is, y'know? . . . Hm. Kind of like now, I guess," 

Dean pushed off of the dresser and stood on his own. "But I understand it. I believe it's a reference to that villain guy, Two Face? Not only the whole fire thing, but I think I confuse specialists. Psychiatrists. I don't just have one way of killing. Normally, serial killers stick with one way. They evolve and change and whatnot, but their basis always stays the same. Their MO. But I have two," He paused and looked to the woman, stepping closer to her. "But you know what those are, don't you?" He kneeled again, looking up at her. One hand went behind his back wrapping his hand around a handle. He brandished a blade; a smaller one with a jagged edge and runes along the side. He pressed the point of it into the side of her knee. She stilled completely, a whimper left her lips. Dean added it up to her afraid of struggling and ending up cutting herself on the knife all on her own. 

God, he loved being in control. 

He pressed a little harder and the sharp point cut into her soft flesh, just the tip of it. A small gasp left her lips and Dean's own pulled into a grin as a small bead of blood spilled over a small patch of her skin, contrastingly dark compared to her light skin. He pulled his blade back and looked at the point, stained with her blood, and just barely. Tentatively, almost curiously, he brought it to his lips and parted them, pressing the tip against his tongue. 

A near moan escaped him and he let his eyes roll back, his mouth closing as he let the metallic tang wash over his palette. The memory of who he was with was fleeting, the thought of who he really wanted to be with was shrouding her. He wanted to know what Sam tasted like, like this. 

No matter what, all roads led back to Sam. 

Opening his eyes, Dean saw that blood was trailing down Miranda's leg from where he cut her. It was small, but still very much there, staining her leg a beautiful deep shade of red. Taking pleasure in her whimpers and yelps and struggles, he leaned down a bit, and let the tip of his tongue follow the crimson trail back up to her knee, using his hands to keep her legs from closing, as well as the persuasion of his knife to her lady bits. 

"Such a good girl. . ." He murmured, praising her obedience. Forced obedience, but obedience nonetheless. Slowly, he drew back and admired her blood stained leg. It was beautiful, but not what he was looking for. Not tonight. He couldn't risk spilling anymore blood. 

As Dean came to his own realization, he came to his feet, knowing just how true his earlier thought. He couldn't kill this woman. At least, not how he wanted tonight. Right now, he desired nothing more than to drive this blade into her chest and let her blood seep deep into her clothes or across her tiny, cutable throat and watch the spurts of blood paint the walls. But that was impulsive; like the decision to go home with her. He'd already thought about how he was going to get out of her - he did a very thorough search of the place, making sure he knew every in and every out - he was impulsive, not stupid. He just realized that he couldn't very well just slice her up like he wanted tonight. Something that would get him by for awhile, like a bump of cocaine. Easy release. But he remembered that he couldn't do that. That would draw too much attention. The police would be scouring the city in search of the illusive Two Face. If they even got of whiff of him, they'd have this city on lock down. So a murder he couldn't do. Not without being driven out of here. Away from Sam. He wouldn't survive that. 

So he decided that it would still be murder, but he'd make it look like something else. An accident of some sort. Nothing to come back to him. Obviously something that would get rid of any and all evidence that he was ever here. Needless to say, his preferred method of ending lives; fire. Fire would get rid of it all. He could stage it. Dean already had a plan on how. 

Gotta love fire. 

Dean stood then and looked down at the woman, tilting his head to the side as he watched her shoulders heave silent sobs. The hard on in his pants, straining against his jeans, was becoming painful. He would need to hurry up and get his little spontaneous plan set in motion. Now, it wasn't necessarily genius - he wasn't famous for that - no, it was simple. It'd get the job done. Burning the place down and making it look like an accident. An accident he could do. Because before, he never made it look like an accident. He straight up killed people left and right, set their homes ablaze without any rhyme or reason. He was blunt and to the point, got his shit done and done exactly how he wanted it, _when_ he wanted it. Perhaps some of that was why he got caught in the first place. 

"Hm, hm, hm," Dean hummed thoughtfully, letting his eyes sweep the room again. "Got a lighter?" 

A muffled sob that faded in and out of a scream. 

"Thought so," 

Didn't take him long to find one, it was in on her nightstand next to her ashtray. 

An ashtray. 

"You smoke?" Dean grinned widely, turning and halfway faced Miranda. "Bad for your lungs, y'know," He dipped his head a-matter-of-factly. There was a smirk on his lips, amusement in his dark emerald eyes. "Not like the long term effects are going to hurt you any. . . At least, not _anymore_ ," He shrugged, picking up the lighter, then he went to rummage through the drawers for the inevitable cigarettes that had to be hiding somewhere. When he came across an unopened box, he opened it, got one out, and then made his way over to the woman, desperately squirming in her seat. Deep down Dean knew that _she_ knew she was going to die, but her mind and body were still in denial - in survival mode. It was amazing what the human body could do when it was pushed to its limits. Though Dean took careful precautions in order so he _wouldn't_ find out for himself just what it could do. 

"I'm gonna take this off of you, okay? No screaming," Dean said, fingers at the wet gag in her mouth. He knelt slightly, leaning in close to her, dangerously close. "Because if you scream, I'll make this so painful that you're gonna wish you burned alive. Starting with those pretty brown eyes. _Got it_?" He questioned in a growl. 

Miranda nodded jerkily. 

"Good girl," Dean praised with a rewarding smile, pulling the gag free from the slobbering wetness of her mouth. A gasp left her lips, followed by some sort of squeak, but after a look of warning it didn't turn into a scream. He held up the cigarette, pressing it to her lips. "Open," He commanded and her lips hesitantly parted, and he slipped the fag in between them. A sob racked her body. "Close," He continued and after a moment of trying to calm herself, she finally closed her lips around the cigarette. The dark lipstick she'd been wearing, almost burgundy it looked like, was smeared all over her mouth and maw from when the gag had inhibited her speech. It, in turn, got all over the mouth bit of the cigarette, and after a couple twists, pulled it from Miranda's quivering mouth. 

"Why are you doing this?" She croaked in want would have probably been a pretty voice if under different circumstances. Now it was raw and rough. 

Dean snorted. "Because I want to?" He laughed shaking his head as he stepped back. 

"Why _do_ you do this - things like this?" Miranda's voice was pleading. It was desperate, pathetic. Almost soothing to Dean and his damaged self esteem - or whatever the hell it was that had been hurt by Sam's indiscretions. 

There was a moment of since after she asked this, making him pause temporarily as he thought. Actually thought about it. _'Because he wanted to,'_ wasn't wrong, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Besides, she was sacrificing her life in order for him to remain safely tucked under his mask. Sacrificing being a term used lightly in this sense seeing how she had no choice in the matter. _'Because he wanted to,'_ didn't really get in the whole picture. Like there was a huge piece of the puzzle missing that would connect one half of the puzzle to the other. Yet he was having a hard time grasping it. At least, enough so that he could put it into words for this woman. 

"I need to," 

He answered. One thing he wouldn't get used to; honesty. He lied about who he was, what he did, what happened to him, his intentions. His entire life had been a lie up until he was arrested, when he was prosecuted. Sentenced. Then everyone could see behind the mask. But he gave up that right after he escaped. Dean was back to being a liar. Until he killed, of course. Then he could let the mask go for awhile. Let his victims have a peek behind it. Watch as their eyes filled with terror. The terror that breathed life into his being. 

"You. . . you don't really n-need to do this, Dean," Miranda's voice was edging on loud and Dean shot her a look of warning. "You d-on't-" 

" _Yes_ , I do," Dean barked. "Always have," 

She fell silent then and furrowed her brow. Her body was still trembling. "What happened to you?" 

"Hm?" Dean raised one of his eyebrows. 

"What happened to you, as in. . ." Miranda seemed to be searching for the right words. "-why _do_ you need to do this? What caused so much tr-trauma that you-" 

"What do you expect me to say?" He barked in laughter. 

She looked taken aback. 

"Expect me to tell you some sort of fuckin' sob story that'll explain why I am the way I am?" Dean's laugh was closing in on hysteria. Yep. Far too long since his last kill. "Well, there isn't one. I'm a psychopathic serial killer who likes to alternate how I murder innocent people," He paused. 

"I'm a bad guy. Not a victim of my past,"

The last thing he heard before he knocked her out was a sob, a pleading sob. Then he was arranging it all to look natural. Untying her and setting her on her bed, sprawled out. The cuts on her legs would be burned to a crisp, therefore he didn't need to worry. Though he did take some time to clean her off, removing every trace he was ever there. putting the chair back in its place. It was more his paranoid nature that was taking over, the meticulous side that drove him to do nothing short of perfection. The side of him that every serial killer has - the side that leaves little bread crumbs in its wake because all of them one day _want_ to get caught, but when they do is completely up to them - was smothered like a camp fire. The thing that would leave a perfect mess behind. Just enough to keep the police interested, but leaving enough mystery for them to be chasing their own tails.

Before, he wanted to get caught. What pissed him off was the fact that it wasn't under his control _how_ he did. Or _when_ for that matter. All serial killers want to get caught. Otherwise, who would get credit for their work? Killing is an art. But they prefer it on their own terms, which wasn't the option Dean had before. Now everyone knew who he was, or at least he _thought_ , and everyone knew his face and name. They could match it to his crimes now. Far too early for his time. He was barely twenty six. He had a lot of work to be doing. A lot more bodies to pile up. A legacy to leave behind. When he died, he wanted people to shudder whenever they heard his name. 

Now all Dean could think of was Sam and how he couldn't get caught. Not now. He couldn't be sent back. But he needed to kill. 

But he needed Sam, too. 

Dean took a deep breath, his shoulders heaving with exertion. He ran from the back of the house to beside the shed in Miranda's backyard, shielding him from all watchful eyes and giving him the perfect view of the house as it started to light up near her bedroom where he left her, unconscious. It took him awhile to get everything set up, so he was betting that she'd wake up before her body was burnt alive. Hopefully. He hadn't been able to _really_ hear her yet. Only the start of one before he knocked her out (and fuck, did she have a head made of steel - his knuckles hurt like a bitch). It barely made it to her throat before Dean had silenced her so abruptly. It's not like her screaming then would have done her any good; Dean would have just sliced open that pretty throat of hers and left anyway, regardless of his decision not to get caught. Not with how badly his hands were shaking. Absolutely _aching_ with need. 

Now he was outside of her home, still by the shed. The house lit up slowly, the orange glow growing from one end of the house to the other. No screams. Dean felt his lip curl at that, his jaw clenched, but just as the fire began licking the outside walls, that's when he heard it. 

A blood curdling scream pierced the air one violent stroke after another, soon becoming distorted by the roar of flames. Dean felt the breath left his body, like he was on the outside looking in. In a way, he was. His body shuddered slightly, a certain pleasure washing over him. One that Sam hadn't given him - but the pleasure Sam gave him, in turn, couldn't be felt through fire. Not flames and spurts of blood. None of that. Nonetheless, Dean's body felt light all of a sudden. As if he were reaching some sort of transcendence. He felt, for once in weeks, _liberated_. 

Up until the point Dean saw something, a shadow in the window. The silhouette of someone. The roaring fire behind it illuminating her beautiful blond locks - making her look like fire, herself. The next thing that Dean knew, palming himself through his jeans as he started to hear the commotion in the surrounding yards, the silhouette was screaming, climbing desperately out of the window, and tumbling over the sill from the second story. 

She landed with a sickening crack.

Blood. Fire. Screams. _Crunch_.

The wide emerald eyes felt like they were being kept open by tape like in those terrible shows. Dean didn't know how the hell he got out of there, but he did. Right on time, too, because the last thing he remembered hearing was the crunch of her bones breaking and the sirens wailing in the distance, nearing him and his crimes. His own little indiscretions for the night. He remembered the smoke billowing and descending into the night's cool sky. Remembered the wholeness he felt in that moment, the control, like he could conquer anything put in his path. 

What Dean didn't know was how he got back to his motel. One moment he was trapped in his mind, his thoughts ravishing him for all he's worth, and the next he was pulling into the parking lot of the motel, the familiar smell of gasoline from a nearby convenient store filling his nostrils. The mildew like scent that accompanied it, coming from the motel itself. Thankfully, he had a few clues. One, his breathing was ragged and his throat was raw. Two, his lungs were on fire (okay, bad metaphor, but you get the point). Three, he was sweating profusely. Obviously, he had run here. But he was outside of his _car_. Since she'd taken _him_ home with her, he'd left his car back at the club. Okay, maybe he ran to the club, then took some back roads to get here. Being in a populated city like this, it wasn't hard to use the lights to your advantage and hide in the bunch of them. 

"Son of a _bitch_ ," Dean growled breathlessly as he heaved for air, hunching over slightly, hands on his knees as he hung his head. 

Fuck, she jumped out of the fucking upstairs _window_! What the hell kind of shit was that? There was a panicky feeling that washed over him. Though he knew that wasn't the correct terminology for it, seeing as he has an empathy disorder. Something that makes him unable to really feel anything. Kind of came with the whole psychopathic psyche thing. But regardless, his breathing became shallow and his chest got tight. Hopefully the mixture of smoke inhalation and the drop from that height had been enough to kill her. That she wasn't being transported to the nearest Emergency Room and being treated as he stood, panting for breath like he'd run here, too. That his car wasn't right behind him. 

Tucking his keys in his pocket, Dean walked at a casual pace to his room. As casual as he could be with the way his body was shaking with the aftershocks of adrenaline. He was coming down from whatever high that fire and those ear piercing screams had induced. He pulled from his other pocket his room key and palmed it as he made his way to the door. When he got their, his hands were shaking so bad that he merely fumbled with the keys and the lock, not ever actually pushing and turning. Looking down he realized that his hands had blood on them. He furrowed his brow. He thought he had gotten it all. Looking at his knuckles, he realized that perhaps not all of it had been that woman's. A couple of his fingers were split open at the knuckles. With a heavy sigh, he went back to trying to open the door. 

"Dean?" 

The voice startled him enough to make him stagger back some, immediately tensing until the voice registered in his mind and he registered it. All but his shoulders relaxed until Sam's tall frame came into view, walking onto the small platform outside of the motel rooms, where Dean had stepped onto to get into his room, and strode tentatively over. What the hell time was it? How the hell did Sam even _get_ here? Better yet, _why_ was he here? And of course it had to be tonight of all nights. 

"What?" Dean snapped, turning his attention back to the door and trying to steady his hand enough to line it up with the lock. It wasn't working. Dean growled with frustration. 

Sam stepped closer, reaching out. "Here, let me-" A hand touched Dean's shoulder. 

" _Don't_ fucking touch me," Dean barked and Sam immediately retracted his hand. 

Good.

Of course, that was the exact opposite of what he wanted right now. Right now, Dean wanted to slam Sam up against the door, tear of his clothes, hike him up on his hips, and fuck him into next week, but we can't all have what we want, can we? 

In between his blood slicked fingers, the key slipped and fell from Dean's hand, landing with a clinking noise to the ground. Dean clenched his fists and let out a heavy sigh through gritted teeth, frustration clear as day in all that he was portraying. What the fuck was wrong with him? It'd been too long. Far too long from his last kill. He couldn't put it off like he didn't without fucking up as severely as he did tonight. The fall and the sound reminded him of a more censored version of the night's earlier entails. 

Before Dean could swallow his dignity and bend down and get the key, Sam swooped in and got it for him. Instead of handing the metal to Dean, he stepped closer, his front brushing against Dean's side, and Sam put the key in simply, and turned. As he turned, Sam pushed open the door and Dean didn't waste any time storming inside, faintly hearing the click of the door being closed behind him and the footsteps of Sam in tow, following him inside. It was dark up until Sam flipped on the lights, much to Dean's displeasure. It lit up the contrasting crimson on his light skin. 

"Holy shit. . ." Sam all but gasped, soon enough striding over to Dean once more, reaching out and about to grasp his hands before recoiling by himself. "The fuck happened to you? Jesus Christ, Dean. You're covered in blood and you're shaking," 

"I am _not_ 'covered' in blood," Dean huffed, stepping away from Sam. He self consciously looking down his body, expecting there to be blood coating his clothing, though he didn't exactly know why, but saw that there was none other than a couple streaks on his dark jeans that could easily be overlooked as some sort of dirt or grime. "It's just a-" 

"Did you get into a fight or something?. . . Are you drunk?" Sam inquired, his voice softening. That only proved to piss Dean off even more. 

" _No_ , Sam. I'm not drunk," Dean went to wipe his hands on his jeans. Okay, he was kind of on the intoxicated side from the Purple Nurples he had earlier, and whatever other form of alcohol he consumed at the club. They were colorful and fruity and just downright awful. What a man has to do. "And as far as I'm concerned, whatever happened is none of your goddamn business," 

Then there was silence. Dean's gaze snapped up to meet Sam's and all of his anger started to flake off, piece by piece. Sam's eyes emanated confusion, worry, and more importantly, _hurt_. Dean's anger returned full force, wanting suddenly very much to beat the ever loving shit out of whoever put that hurt into his big, beautiful eyes. Then he realized that _he_ put it there. He's the one who made's Sam's pretty pink lips turn down in the most subtle of frowns, like Sam himself didn't want it to be there, but it was more of an absent, subconscious move.

Looking away, Dean rolled his shoulders a bit, finding them slightly sore, as if he'd slept wrong or something. But he knew that wasn't the case. Fuck, why'd Sam have to come surprise him on this night, of all fucking nights?

"'M sorry," Dean murmured quietly. "Just had a stressful night," He paused, and before Sam could say anything more, he started to walk towards the bathroom to hop in the shower. He'd probably have to get rid of these jeans. 

And a strong hand was once again on him, this time gripping just above his elbow, long fingers digging into his bicep just slightly. This made Dean turn, looking into wide, puppy dog eyes. Damnit. "Dean. . ." Sam's voice was soft, as if were forgiving Dean of something. Or perhaps it was more along the lines of Sam apologizing to Dean for something. "I'm sorry," And the latter was confirmed. Dean knew what he was apologizing for, but he didn't understand why. "I know you saw. . . uh, I know you saw me 'nd Gabe in his office again. . . I just didn't expect you to destroy the liquor shelves," 

"I didn't destroy-" Dean was about to get defensive. 

"Actually, yeah, you did," Sam said a-matter-of-factly. "Higher dollar stuff, too," He said, seeming to be musing the thought for a moment. "Gabe was pissed. I didn't even expect you to be there, but when I saw you-" 

Seemed like this was becoming a habit; both of them interrupting each other. "You didn't seem too upset about it," 

"You did," 

Dean snorted. "I think that's already been discussed," 

"Were you. . . _jealous_?" Sam asked. He said it inquisitively, making Dean want to answer him right away. 

Instead Dean just lifted his gaze back to Sam's, he didn't speak. Didn't really know what to say. 

It was moments like these where Dean's half relieved he can't feel anything, but half wanting to so he knows what to say. What the appropriate reaction - what the appropriate _response_ would be. Yes? No? Kinda? Yeah, none of the above. Dean was sure that if he told Sam what was really going on, it would scare him off. That Sam was his, and his alone. That when he saw Gabe fucking him, it was like being a kid and having your favorite toy taken and played with right in front of you. And you can't do a damn thing about it. At least, not soon without making it impossible to take it back. If Dean 'took care of' his little problem, it would draw the attention of the police. Dean would have to run again if he didn't already with the woman who thought it was a good fucking idea to go free falling outside of her goddamn window. 

Sam's eyes changed suddenly. Well, it wasn't sudden. It was like a quick fade. Dean read them and they held some sort of. . . _pity_ in them. "Dean. . ." Sam began, tilting his head some. More signs of pity. "You know. . . we can't. . . _this_ , this can't be more than what it is, Dean, and-" 

"And what is _this_ -" Dean gestured aggressively in between the two of them. "-Sam?" 

Sam fell silent. 

" _Hm_?" Dean pressed, stepping towards Sam, his jaw clenched. 

"I. . . I-" Sam bit his lower lip, looking away. Then he looked back at Dean. "I have a girlfriend," 

"So you keep saying," Dean nodded, chuckling. If he wasn't near hysterics before, he sure as hell was now. Who the hell did this kid think he was? Dean's fucking _end_ , that's what. If what he did in the dark didn't kill him first, this, this. . . _boy_ would. Dean was all but exasperatedly certain of it.

"I do!- Dean?" Sam's voice cracked with concern. 

"Just-" Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. "Fuck off for a sec, 'kay? Need'ta. . . Need'ta take care of-" He gestured by raising his bloody hands. 

And with that, Dean barely managed to refrain from a storm as he clunked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Thankfully, Sam didn't protest. For the first time since he'd met Sam, Dean wished that when he got out of the shower, that Sam wouldn't still be there, waiting for him. That Sam'd just go back to his girlfriend's and let him process all of this. Dean really needed to register all that happened tonight. Have some sort of plan. But he couldn't think when Sam was around, clouding up his head with things that used to not cloud his head so thickly. Not only was sex the issue, always thinking about different ways he'd screw Sam when he got the chance, but Dean was actually _questioning_ himself. Questioning things he's been told in the past. Brainwashed into thinking is true about himself. See? Before he met Sam, he wouldn't have used brainwashed to state that. A sociopath or psychopath or whatever the fuck he was - that was just what he was. Something he couldn't help before, something he didn't _want_ to help, really. Never even used to see a future, taking whatever was given to him day by day. He supposed 'living in the moment' was the right phrase for it.

The shower was short lived and Dean was rock hard the entire fucking time. He was too overwhelmed to take care of it - _didn't_ want to take care of it. Just wanted to get in the shower, wash off the blood and other secretions from the nights entails, and get out. Dry off and lay down. Think about a plan B. Something he could do instead of running. Having to run and leave Sam behind didn't sit with him right. And he couldn't just coax Sam into leaving what made him happy, which ironically was studying law. Maybe not the subject itself, but the overall 'save the day' effect. And--

 _Holy mother of **sin**._

Walking out of the bathroom, towel draped loosely over his damp hips, Dean got an eye full of just. . . _Sam_. Limbs and hair and muscle. Jesus friggin' Christ. Dean had thought he'd gone by then, that maybe he got the message that he didn't want company right now and got a ride back to his apartment, but _no_. Sam was sprawled out, bare ass naked, on the motel's bed. Only the light from the lamps at either side of the bed and the moonlight from the window cast down on Sam's body, hitting all the right spots on his bumps and curves, the sharp jut of his hips, the wonderful way his tall body cascaded into long legs, toned calves. The curl of his toes as he bent his knees and arched his back, making his ribs protrude under his sun kissed fleshed, illuminated perfectly by the soft, warm glow of the lamp. His large hands, one in his hair, brushing those long chestnut locks back, and the other in between his legs, pumping his generous length. 

Dean stood there, dumbstruck. The towel's threadbare fabric irritated the hardon he concealed under it, though not very well. Seeing this. . . well, it didn't fucking help any. Especially not the whole needing to think thing. Not when Sam was fisting that fuckin' glorious cock of his, hard and leaking. Jesus. Did Sam _plan_ this? Well, no shit he did. Of course this was his intent. Though Dean would have appreciated it more if it had been on any other night. . . Or maybe he _was_ appreciating it more _because_ it was on this night. A nice little distraction from everything wrong in his world right now. 

When Sam saw Dean standing there, he released his cock. It laid hard and leaking on his stomach. A grin curved at Sam's lips. It still amazed him at how Sam could go from being blushing and bashful to a minx, his entire aura changed. Not that Dean was complaining. Nope, not at all. 

"What are you waiting for?" 

The words rolled off of Sam's tongue in a way that made Dean's dick twitch with interest. Dean didn't waste time going over to the bed and dropping his towel, grateful for the way the irritation was gone, and he started to climb up on the bed. As he did this, Sam flipped over - face down and beautiful ass in the air. Dean sat back on his calves, on his knees on the bed as he admired Sam from this angle; directly behind him, tall enough to see down the curve of Sam's spine to the chestnut mop at the end, his profile in Dean's sights, his right cheek in the sheets. Dean followed his neck to his shoulder, bicep, forearm, wrist, the fingers that dug into the sheets lightly. Returning his attention to Sam's face, he saw the line in the middle of his forehead, the crease in between his eyebrows that told Dean that something was wrong. Dean realized what it was whenever Sam's hips swayed, bringing his focus on Sam's pert ass again. 

All of Sam's body was telling Dean that he wanted this, desired it, _needed_ it. There was yet again that darkness seeping into the andalusite pools of Sam's fox-slanted eyes. Dean could only really see his left due to the position, but that was enough to assume it resided in both. Something that mirrored what undoubtedly lay in Dean's own. That was one thing that Dean had never been able to hide - his darkness. But it seemed that Sam could hide it fairly well. Except in moments like these, but Sam was safe here. No judgments or accusations here. Not that Dean is even one to talk. If anything, whenever Dean would see that, he felt admiration. Felt even more powerful, but even more mortal all the same. Being with Sam was like getting repeated whiplash with deluded emotions. 

"God, Sam. . ." Dean whispered in awe. Leaning down, his lips brushed softly against the bottom of his spine, right above the cleft of Sam's ass. Dean would never tire of his scent. It was like just cutting into a green apple with a hint of the smell that clings to the air right before a storm. The security that Dean would feel on those nights, but the threading on thin ice part whenever he'd have to drive on one of those nights. 

Sam shifted some as Dean kissing down to one globe of his ass, biting into the soft flesh there and earning a moan from the other. "Why -fuck, _Dean_ \- wh-y haven't you-" 

"Why haven't I what, sweetheart?" Dean purred against Sam's ass, taking to nipping and kissing up to his back again, his hands Sam's ass, and one reaching in between Sam's legs and giving his balls a gentle squeeze, one that drew a sharp breath from Sam. 

"Why haven't you fucked m'yet?" Sam managed through gritted teeth. Dean took pleasure in knowing that that was because of him. 

"Because I didn't wanna ruin it," Dean answered after a moment, turning his attention to Sam's other hip, where he sucked on lightly, unlatching and watching with wonder as a small bruise formed. 

Sam arched his hips into Dean's mouthing. "Ruin what?" 

"Nothing," Dean said a bit too fast, but his tone was soft. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean spoke up first. "D'ya want me to? Tonight?" 

"Please," Sam all but begged. Dean's cock throbbed in response. 

There was something that washed over him, something that Dean wasn't used to. He should be used to the weird feelings he'd get around Sam, but he wasn't and didn't think that he'd be getting that way for a very long time - if ever. It was triggered by the what ifs that clouded his mind. What if that woman survived? What if she was telling the police right now who came home with her? What if they're out looking for him right now? 

What if he doesn't get to see Sam again after tonight? 

Desperation. 

That's what that was, desperation. 

Dean was desperate to be with Sam, to be _inside_ of him. To really claim what was his. Have him in the most intimate way that was possible for Dean. 

"Tell me what y'want, Sammy. Tell me how _bad_ ," Dean purred, straightening out some and pressing forward, the length of his cock pressing in the cleft of Sam's ass. Sam's body responded by moving back on it, grinding his ass on Dean's shaft. 

"Need your cock, Dean. Need it inside of me," Sam moved back down on Dean's cock. "Need you to fuck me, Dean. Fill m'up," 

The nightstand still held the two items he'd stolen from his snooping around at Sam and Jessica's apartment. Dean didn't waste any time as he reached over to said nightstand and retrieving the two items; the condom and lube, and in doing so pressing harder against Sam's ass and earning a small and low moan from him. Once he got back in his spot behind Sam, he placed both things beside them and got the lube, popping it open, and squirting some into his palm, smearing it over his fingers. He sat back and felt Sam exhale at the loss of pressure, and then traced his finger down in between Sam's cheeks. He stopped when he found the pucker and he teased the ring of muscle for a moment until he heard a small whine escape Sam's lips, encouraging him to push passed the first ring of muscle and then the second, slipping into the wet heat inside of Sam. There was little or maybe even no resistance when he did that, and at the time, he didn't think too hard about it. Maybe that was normal. Dean wasn't really used to butt stuff except for the occasional girl who liked to get freaky. 

Sam made a small moaning sound as Dean started to move his fingers in and out of him, thrusting in and out of his hole. Sam fucked back on his fingers, panting by this time, his body coated in a thin layer of sweat. Dean crooked his fingers inside of Sam and the other all but keened in approval. He went back to finger fucking Sammy and relishing in the moans and the way continued to fuck back on his fingers like a good little slut. _God_ , and tonight, Sam was _his_ little slut. No one else's. Dean would be the one pounding into Sam's ample rear. 

"I'm open, De-ean," Sam bucked his hips back on Dean's fingers, Dean crooking his fingers in response. "Now f-uck me," 

" _Your_ wish is _my_ command, baby boy," Dean purred and positioned himself at Sam's entrance, snatching up Sam's condom and tearing it open with his teeth, spitting the foil aside and discarding the rest of the packet after he pulled what he needed out of it and started to roll it on. When he slipped it on, he positioned himself at Sam's entrance again, letting his precome wet tip press into the 'opened' pucker. 

It felt as if all of the air left Dean as he pushed his hips forward, sliding into the stifling heat that was Sam. Despite his groan of pleasure and the mewl of approval from Sam, when he gripped Sam's hips with his slippery fingers he was a little taken aback by how easy it was to bottom out. Dean wasn't by any means small and he was above average size, so that wasn't the problem. It wasn't like he wasn't feeling _anything_ \- _fuck_ it was that at all - Sam was amazing. He felt amazing. Better than any pussy he'd ever had the chance to slip into, but this just wasn't what he was expecting. 

"Fuck, _Dean_!" Sam gasped, his fingers curling in the sheets, clutching them. Dean watch Sam's back arch with feline grace, his eye trailing down to see his cock being swallowed by Sam's greedy hole. 

Pulling back, Dean pushed forward again, having to dig his fingers into Sam's hips to keep him steady, the lube proving to be efficiently slippery as Dean's fingers would have otherwise been a slip 'n' slide if it hadn't been for his bruising grip. It was different than that of any girl that wanted to 'get freaky'. It was, dare he say it. . . _looser_ than what he was expecting? Still tighter than any pussy he's indulged in since Freshman year high school, but with the girls that liked to get freaky. . . well, the back door was always a snug fit. Pumping his hips faster, Dean nearly got whiplash from a thought that hit him.

Gabriel's the reason Sam doesn't fit him like a glove, like a second skin. A tight, hot embrace that wasn't as tight as Dean had imagined it would be. _Gabriel_ was the one who had this hole first. Fucked it not two hours ago. Probably took his time stretching him beforehand. 

Son of a _bitch_. 

The anger was back. 

When Dean pulled back this time, it was quick, and when he pushed back into Sam, it was more like a slam, his pleasure heavy balls slapping against Sam's ass, knocking a clipped moan from Sam's throat. Being so deep inside of Sam, it was almost easy to forget why he was angry in the first place. Fingers slipped into Sam's hair, grasping a handful of his mane, and tugging it back, getting a surprised, pleasure broken yelp that sounded like a strangled moan. Dean wasn't sure what exactly he was mad at. Gabriel, for sure. He didn't have to be logical about that. But he was angry with Sam, too, but for a multitude of reasons. Some that he couldn't put his finger on, especially now that he was actually inside of Sam, splitting him wide with his cock. And oh how great it was. The anger took a backseat to his pleasure, but it resided deep, manifesting into a hungrier drive. 

"S-o-o. Big," Sam managed in pants, sounding like when you're talking while going down a bumpy road. "So. Fucking big. _Dean_ ," 

And Dean took pride in that and it encouraged him to pound into Sam faster, his cock burrowing its way deeper inside of Sam as he went harder. 

"S'good for me, baby boy," Dean groaned, pulling on Sam's hair again and getting a louder than the rest moan. Sam, right now, _was_ being a good boy, Dean'll give him that, but he'd been a bad boy lately. "But y'been so bad," He panted, slamming his hips into Sam's. "Such a little cockslut," Dean emphasized his words by tugging on Sam's hair again, jerking his head back enough that he could look at Dean. 

"Dean-" 

Driven by pure desire and lust, Dean pulled out of Sam with an obscene _pop_ , getting a whimper of loss from Sam. Sam moved his hips back, finding Dean's again, and grinding his ass on Dean's cock, but, with great reluctance, Dean pulled his hips back. He flipped Sam over and was all but diving back in between Sam's legs, the younger looking baffled, confused for a split second, but once Dean's cock was finding its way back inside of him, slipping easily passed the ring of muscles clenching, Sam's face screwed up with pleasure, lip curling in that way it does. Now Dean could see him. See his eyes and his teeth, watch the words and moans topple out of his swollen lips. 

A whine escaped Sam's throat, Adam's apple bobbing, and his andalusite eyes rolled back and closed. Dean's hands at Sam's hips now worked to drive Sam into his cock, Dean working his hips into Sam. Legs wrapped around him and dark eyes flitted open, pink lips parted and whines and moans filtering through. 

Dean shifted his hips, and rightly so, because out came a loud, "Oh, Dean!". The spot, just one hit alone, had Sam's body shaking, his legs tightening around Dean's waist, his heels digging into his ass due to how long Sam's legs were. Dean grinned wickedly, thrusting with a purpose now, hitting that spot over and over again until it had Sam speaking in tongues. Arching his back. Keening Dean's name. There was now a constant stream of precome wetting Sam's dick, and Dean was tempted to start jerking it, but he didn't. He wanted Sam to come on nothing but his cock. 

Sam moaned and moved like a pornstar, took Dean's cock like the best of 'em, but Dean enjoyed seeing his flushed cheeks, his wide and very puppy dog like eyes because those were things that his little slut couldn't fake. The way his hips moved willingly and eagerly with Dean's own. Rolling them and grinding them, throwing his head back, whipping his sweat damp chestnut locks back with him, the tresses fanning out on the pillow messily and perfectly all the same. 

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Sam panted out like a chant, sweating like a whore in church. That made two of them. 

In the heat of the moment, one of Dean's hands reached up Sam's body, keeping the other one firmly planted in place at Sam's hip to guide him down his cock, and didn't stop until he reached Sam's throat, closing his hand around it. Not hard, not soft, but stern. Sam's eyes widened in surprise, but in the sex induced haze, Dean didn't acknowledge it. A hand closed around his wrist, but it didn't try to tug Dean's hand away, it was just there, so Dean took that as the go ahead to tighten his grasp just a little, able to feel his Adam's apple bobbing, the vibrations of each moan and whine and keen, and the way it felt when Sam screamed his name. Sam's hand tightened back, letting him know that it was there, but Dean maybe took a little too much pleasure in knowing that, if Dean wanted, Sam wouldn't be able to stop him. He took satisfaction in knowing that _he_ was the one in control now. That Sam was under his mercy.

He really saw and felt how beautiful Sam's throat was then, experimentally pressing on it, squeezing lightly. The column of flesh and bone, so fragile. Dean could feel Sam's pulse, the blood coursing vigorously through his body, coming to and fro through the passage of Sam's neck. The steady, harsh thumping that was Sam's pulse now. Dangerous thoughts of what Sam's blood would look like spilling from that column entered Dean's mind and he immediately pushed it out, but his hand remained, reassuring himself that _he_ was in control, even if it really didn't feel like it.

It was a lot to concentrate on, but this was his area of expertise (well. . . _mostly_ ), so the challenge was welcomed and taken like a boss. He guided Sam's hips until they fell into a fast pace rhythm, Dean thrusting full and deep into the soft insides of Sam, and then he held his hip to keep him steady, the hand on his throat not there as a threat, but a sort of vice for Dean. He couldn't really explain it, but he felt more secure doing this. With his figurative armor falling off of him piece by piece, crumbling away because of the very being he was in, his head was spinning, overwhelmed in this moment. He thought it had been from the anger at first, but when it faded, his hand remained. The best part was that Sam didn't even seem to mind. 

Sam was every serial killer's wet dream. 

He tried to rise up, reaching for Dean's shoulders, desperate for some sort of purchase, but Dean held him down, pressing the heel of his palm into the hallow of his throat. Dean licked his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat, and he pumped his hips faster as a warm feeling coiled in his groin after he felt Sam start to clench around him. The clenching more than made up for the earlier issue, feeling Sam's pleasure taking over and reigning over his entire body. Sam didn't have to say anything for Dean to understand that he was close. So was Dean. He was surprised at himself for lasting this long. 

"S'good, Dean, s'fuckin' good," Sam panted, arching his back. Dean hit that spot again and Sam bucked his hips. "That's it, right there," He barely managed. 

He thrust his hips home, hitting it again. Dean got used to the feeling, mapping out Sam's insides. It was a bundle of nerves that he was hitting. His prostate? "Like that, baby boy?" 

"Oh fuck yeah!" Sam keened, throwing his head back, his Adam's apple pressing into Dean's palm. 

The coiling sensation, the growing pressure in his groin, it was like a bubble about to pop. He wasn't going to last much longer, not with Sam's whines and keens and gyrating hips. Not with how hot he felt wrapped around him, his legs spread out like a goddamn whore. And right now, in this very moment, Sam was _his_ whore. His beyond beautiful baby boy. 

"I'm - Dean, I'm so -" Sam got out in a pleasure strangled way, his eyes squeezing shut. 

"I got'cha, sweetheart," Dean panted, his brow wet with sweat, and he fucked into Sam harder, faster. He shifted them both to penetrate deeper. And in one slide of his hips, hitting Sam's sweet spot again, Sam cried out Dean's name as his face contorted with pleasure. Seeing the pearly white ropes of come shoot out across Sam's chest sent Dean spiraling over the edge, clutching onto Sam's hips for more purchase than his neck, and helping his baby boy ride out his orgasm. Seeing Sam throw his head back, his face flush the most arousing shades of pink, see his hair matted with sweat to his forehead. Dean rocked his hips a few more times, unrelentingly chasing his orgasm, and Dean had to squeeze his own eyes shut as everything faded to black and he slammed into Sam one final time, finally reaching his climax and coming. And _fuck_ did it feel great. Fantastic. Fuckin' splendid. His entire body shook and quaked as he rode out his more intense than normal orgasm. 

"Chrissakes, Sammy," Dean huffed in an out of breath way in admiration. He didn't go completely soft inside of Sam, so it was more of a shock to Sam's system when Dean eventually _did_ pull out, leaving with an obscene _pop_ and a hiss at the loss from Sam's lips.

Dean looked over to Sam, looking at his illuminated, flushed, and sweaty form. His chest rising and falling in dramatic breaths, pants for air, as equally as heavy as Dean's own. The only sounds being their heavy breathing and then the pop of Sam's lips parting, presumably to speak. But they closed again and Dean watched them purse for a moment, until he looked over with puppy-dog hazel eyes that looked incredibly alight with green, almost resembling his own in this light. His pink lips were parted again and Dean was thinking about leaning in to maybe kiss them, but then Sam spoke.

"That was the first time I-. . . I, uh," Sam trailed off and Dean furrowed his brow. It definitely wasn't his first time bottoming to someone, Dean saw that first hand. Twice. And it definitely wasn't his first time being split open on someone's cock. Again, Dean had witnessed that first hand. Also twice. "Coming without, ya know-. . ." 

Dean lips made an 'o' shape, a silent, " _Ooh_ ". A cocky grin broke out across his lips and he quirked one of his eyebrows. "Really? Not once?" 

"Not up until a couple minutes ago, no," Sam confirmed and Dean could have sworn that he'd seen Sam's cheeks flush, his long eyelashes hiding whatever was happening in his eyes. Dean's chest swelled with pride - he'd been Sam's first something, at least. A small chuckle rumbled in Sam's just then, a huff of air. "Don't know if I should've told y'that. . . 'S kind of embarrassing that I _did_. . ." Sam trailed off. 

"'S not, Sam," Dean shook his head, propping himself up with his elbow to better look at Sam, having to tilt his head down some now. Another grin curved his lips. "I thought it was really fuckin' hot," 

Sam answered by curling up closer to Dean, a hand on his chest and a head on his shoulder. Dean had never been one for cuddling. Usually kicked the girl out if he took them back to his place (most likely a crappy motel room) or left theirs (and he'd had heels aimed for his head multiple times), but Sam was an exception. As long as he was with Sam, he didn't give a fuck what he had to do or tolerate. It was actually kind of nice, and that's coming from someone who tries to avoid intimate contact (touching) at all costs. Except, of course, during the act of sex or during one of his kills. 

"I uh," Sam started, fingers doing a little languid dance number on Dean's chest. "Didn't peg you to be the type into choking," 

Dean nearly _choked_ on his laughter. "I didn't- I didn't _choke_ you," 

"Tell that to my neck," 

"Whatever," Dean huffed, rolling his eyes playfully. "Y'big baby," 

"Shaddup," Dean could practically hear the pout in his voice. Sam went silent for a moment. "I uhm. . . I kinda liked it," His voice was small. 

Dean raised his eyebrows some and a smirk teased his lips. Sam really _was_ a serial killer's wet dream. "Didn't peg you to be the type into choking," 

"Oh, fuck off," Sam thwacked Dean's chest, earning a sputter coughish laugh from Dean. 

Rubbing his chest where Sam hit him, Dean grinned. "I'd much rather fuck _you_ ," 

Silence. 

"You just _did_ ," Sam's voice was skeptic. 

"I mean again, sweetheart," 

That night, they fucked three more times, and made his Sammy come four more times. Needless to say, their dicks were a little more than achy and sensitive afterwards. They fucked until Dean knew that Sam's hips just _had_ to be aching as much as his dick. But seeing Sam come, knowing that it was _him_ who made Sam felt so much pleasure, it was the most satisfying feeling in the world. During their throes of passion, Dean ended up incorporating food play into the mix. Had an ice cube that he'd gotten (with nothing but a towel on that he hastily threw around his hips) from just outside the motel up against one of the outside walls near the check in area and got it in between his teeth, thankful he'd never been one to have sensitive teeth, and ran it up Sam's heated body. Watching as goosebumps arose on his skin as he ran the cube up and down his body, loving the way the ice melted and streamed off in between the dips of his developing muscles and down into the valley of his naval. Then up to his quivering chest, watching Sam's face change as he neared one of his nipples. 

"F-fuck," Sam whispered shakily. 

Dean took pleasure in making Sam writhe. Enjoyed watching Sam deflate his chest as the initial contact of ice to nipple took place and he tried to get away from the feeling at first until he adjusted and puffed out his chest once again, embracing the cold of the cube that was steadily shrinking in size. Sam's heated skin slowly cooled down as Dean traced Sam's dips and curves with it, paying special attention to his nipples. He liked whenever he rested his chin on Sam's chest, over his heart, as he dipped the ice in the hallow of Sam's neck, because he could feel the hard thumps of his heart to his chest. Knowing that _he_ was the one making that happen. 

Sam ended up riding him, bouncing beautifully up and down on his cock. Dean could officially say that he _loved_ (if not, it sure as hell felt like it) seeing Sam's chestnut waves bouncing along with him, tousling atop his head, the small muscles in his pectorals lax and therefore jiggling slightly. _Kind of like tits_ , Dean thought, musing it. And don't think that Dean _didn't_ take advantage of Sam's little choking kink. Wrapped his hand right around Sam's throat and squeezed lightly, moving his hand up and down with each bounce of Sam's body, earning mewls and guttural groans from the recipient.

And if Dean thought Sam was beautiful before, that was nothing compared to what Sam looked like whenever he sunk down on Dean's thick cock and came, throwing his head back and moaning wantonly, entire body flushed and drenched with sweat. Not to mention the sounds they created together. Sam's ass smacking on Dean's thighs every time he'd come down. Their grunts that mingled together in the strong musk of sex in the air. Dean's free hand on Sam's narrow hip, too sharp to be anything but a man's, gripping the meat there. As hard as it was to take his eyes off of Sam, he did, and looked in between them where their bodies joined, watched as Sam's hole greedily swallowed him up time and time again. After releasing Sam's neck, their pace a bit too past to continue to do so without _actually_ hurting Sam, Dean's hands went to Sam's ass cheeks, having to sit up a little, and pulled them further apart, allowing him to fuck up into Sam deeper as he mercilessly chased his orgasm.

Round three was lazy, just consisting of Dean flipping Sam over and fucking him like that, Dean's chest against Sam's back, Sam laying on his stomach, cheek once again in the pillow as he got fucked into the mattress, Sam twisting his head around awkwardly and Dean slotted their lips together in a sloppy, passionate kiss because they were both tired. But they both caught a second wind and needless to say, it led to round four. By 'catching their second wind', Dean really meant that he wrapped his lips around Sam's cock and blew the other's fucking mind. It gave Dean's junk a little time to rest before getting it up again, which wasn't hard to do when Sam was blowing his load down his throat.

The last time for the night - or early morning depending on how you looked at it - was Sam riding him again, more or less. Dean sat back on his calves and hoisted Sammy up on his lap. It brought them closer, and in any other situation Dean would have been really uncomfortable at the intimacy, but now he was thinking it was his favorite position with Sam. Able to hug Sam to him, grip his shoulders, thrust into him deeper. And _god_ , could Sam moan loud. Seemed to amplify now that Sam's mouth was right up against Dean's ear. The kid had claws, too. Dean's scratched up, stinging back was proof of that much. Not that Dean was complaining. If anything, it was a major turn on for him. Feeling Sam's nails scrape down his back as the younger was shoved back down on the older's cock. Dean was growing accustomed to the feeling of being inside of Sam - not _used_ to it. No, not that by any means. More or less wanting - no, _needing_ to be inside of him. Loving the way Sam would clench around him when he was getting close or whenever Dean would hit that sweet spot, how Sam's thighs would splay wider whenever he wanted more, more, more. 

Large hands clutched at Dean's shoulders, nails digging into his flesh, thighs tightened around him. Their chests were pushed together, Sam's ass smacking into Dean's groin as both of their's coiled with a warm feeling, white hot pleasure coursing through Dean, making his fingers dig bruises into Sam's hips as he slammed them into himself over and over, chasing both of their orgasms relentlessly. When they came, Dean could have sworn he blacked out for a minute, because the next thing he knew, he was laying down, arm over Sam's shoulder, limbs tangled in with his as they faced each other. His eyes were on Sam's equally fatigued andalusite eyes, and Dean found him musing the thought of Sam looking like a sleepy puppy. 

Something. . . _warm_ stirred in Dean's chest. 

As if sensing it, Sam did his own bit of stirring, his legs wiggling a bit and it was then that Dean realized, looking down in between them, Sam's legs were splayed in a funny looking way. "My legs won't fucking close," Sam grumbled quietly. Dean chuckled lightly. 

"Got saddle butt?" Dean questioned teasingly in a whisper. 

"You're not even a horse!" He snapped with a frown. 

Dean grinned. "Ya sure as hell rode me like one," 

It earned him another thwack. More or less a punch to the side, but Dean laughed it off and ended up coaxing Sam to move closer to him. Dean enveloped him in his tired, sore arms, holding him close. He's never had these. . . _impulses_ before. The need to have someone as close as possible to him. 

"Goodnight, _Jerk_ " Sam murmured quietly, muffled against Dean's chest. 

Dean smirked, kissing the top of Sam's head. "G'night, _Bitch_ ,"

At six thirty in the morning, exactly what time a certain someone needed to be up for his lecture in the morning, Sam woke up to an empty bed and _Heat of the Moment_ by Asia blaring from the alarm clock on the nightstand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! As per usual, I'll be editing mistakes as I see them.(:

**Author's Note:**

> That was it for this chapter! How'd you like it? Let me know down below, my beautiful babes!


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